


Raising from the ashes

by Muspell



Series: Hardbacked and Leatherbound [7]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non Explicit Violence, but most definitely there, explicit rape but with warnings, just their relationship on this verse, no jjbek here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell
Summary: Otabek moves from the states, where he's been living with his roomate for two years to a city he knows nothing about and no one from. It's hard not to relapse when he feels every approach, every touch, burning through his skin, unbearable.Specially when falling into a new rink with such a gold star skater like Jean-Jacques Leroy.But Otabek is anything but a coward. He won't be intimidated. He won't be bullied down. It'll take more than a hostile neighbourhood to crack him.That he hopes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to my beta Nahiara and my editor and overall smut goddess BlackMountainBones for their support on this piece that took a stupid long time to finish. i just don't feel comfortable writing JJ, I hope this works. so, enjoy.

He feels a shiver crawling down his spine when he sees the guy he’s about to train with. Six days a week, a good nine hours a day. 

He wants to turn around and run off. 

Otabek has heard a lot about his new rink’s star, Jean-Jacques Leroy: he’s daring, talented, unique…

No one has ever told him he’d be this  _ loud. _

“So, new guy, what was your name again?” Leroy pretty much yells in his ear, one foot up on the bench Otabek’s sitting on, untying his skates. It was too long a practice to be putting up with such a guy. He feels the weight of a hand falling down on his shoulder with a thud; makes use of all of his willpower not to bite it off. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Leroy dismisses him with a wave of his hand since Otabek doesn’t make even one tiny gesture in reply, and moves away to bother some other rinkmate. At least that one seems actually happy to see him. Good, it’ll buy Otabek some time away from him.

He promptly walks to the locker rooms, avoiding any form of eye contact that might set him into another unwanted and completely one sided conversation, and undresses quickly to jump into the showers  He winces at the first touch of scalding water against his skin, tiny dots of red blossoming around fresh blue and purple. The welcome gifts of a new life, once more away from what had finally became a second home to him, the sharp slap back into the reality of the ice imprinted on him. 

A necessary evil, still. As obnoxious as he is, Leroy is one of the promises of the skating world, having blown everyone’s minds at his last season as a Junior skater, more than ready to move up; Otabek might just learn a thing or two from him. 

In total honesty, it’s not even the new place, the unknown country, the French he can’t quite understand,  _ loud as fuck _ rinkmates… No, what hurts the most it’s not the new: it’s all of the old. The sickly yellow bruises that refuse to fade away, the red spots under his jaw, appearing now that the makeup washes off. Funny, his former coach used to get so horrified at the clear marks on street fights on him that she taught him how to conceal pretty much every bruise. She knew too well he wouldn’t stop picking up fights no matter how hard she tried to make him; and that she did, tried everything from extra workout hours to long speeches to just  _ pleading. _ She just never understood why he does it. 

Well, half the times he doesn’t get it either. There’s something utterly attractive about it all: the physical pain numbs every other sense like a veil shielding him from the outside, his survival instincts kick in and all he can think off is that he’s still standing, kicked bloody, but so very much alive. Despite the everyday scolding, the humiliation of not being as good; despite every bad turn and clash against the hard ice, he still  _ is. _

His coach never really knew about all the rest though, all the other marks he used her talent to cover up; he’s made sure of it. The prints on his skin not-from-fighting that burned much deeper, the true battle wounds. The stinging of scratched knuckles have nothing against the fingerprints snaking from his thighs to his hipbones,the bitemarks splattered from collarbones up and down his neck, as if he were a canvas painted in hurt and violence and an unstoppable thirst to feel himself undone under some stranger’s lips. 

It’s the only way his mind stays quiet for a moment, lulled and locked away. Well, that and his music, but mixing only helps so much when he needs to jump off the real world, to lose himself. It’s almost narcotic: the way everything blends and swirls in a mist of warm breath against his mouth, stale of cheap whisky and strong cigarettes. All the voices constantly repeating inside of his brain  _ you’re not strong enough, you never will be  _  fall silent to the drumming of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, to the moaning muffled against his skin, yet still so present. 

But it’s the withdrawals, the mornings after, that drain him out. The words resonate much louder then, impossible to shut off, and every new bruise and nibble and ache feels like a slap in the face. 

_ You’re not talented enough. _

_ You don’t belong. _

_ You’re not worthy.  _

_ You’re not good enough  _ and he hides for them into other people’s pleasure, to feel something other than defeat. No, not quite right. He deserves it: he’s not good enough for praise, for tenderness, for love… He deserves the hurt, the manhandling; to be degraded and slapped and fucked raw. It’s the one thing he’s always been good at, to be gagged and pinned down by someone else’s will, no matter how much he tries to break loose. 

He turns the shower off after what feels like a lifetime, shuddering at the sudden chill. He dresses quickly to walk out to a supposedly empty hall: everyone should have gone home by now, and he really needs them to. He doesn’t feel fit to see anyone and not break down. 

If only he could be so lucky. 

“There you are! I thought you had gone home already!” Leroy steps in his way with a grin that looks more smug than friendly. At least, there’s not touching this time; he’s learnt that much. “We’re going for a bit, the whole gang and I.” He points at the ten (maybe twelve?) people at his back, scattered on the bleachers and chatting lightheartedly. Otabek’s most definitely not one of them; he has to stop himself from running back inside the locker room and slam the door shut behind him. He can’t stop the wincing, though, but the way too overjoyed man must have read it as a scowl by the twist of his mouth. Good. “As a sort of welcome, y’know? So we can learn a bit about you,” he insists, taking a step forward, and Otabek stands still as if Leroy was a predator sniffing the air to find, sensing every motion. 

Otabek really hopes the guy works like that. 

If he could only be so lucky. 

Leroy moves a hand up and dangerously approaching Otabek… He pulls it back to do this weird… Gesture thing with his hand, arms crossed over his chest. Ah, that must the signature he’s so famous for. 

“I know it must be intimidating to dine with  _ the King. _ ” Really, now? Is that what he’s gonna have to put up with all season? Leo’s cheerful ways, constantly counting him in on any plan he could think of without even asking and always with a smile on his face, suddenly don’t seem so obnoxious anymore. At least he doesn’t have a trademarked move as ridiculous as that. And doesn’t speak of himself in third person. 

Leroy comes back at it, and  _ winks  _ at him. He winked at him, there’s no way Otabek could have imagined that. What the-

“So what’s gonna be, new guy? Ready to party with the greats?” 

Otabek pushes down all the disgust, the smug smirk, the  _ do you even know what party means, you airheaded naive idiot?  _ To stop himself from rolling his eyes at him. Or straight up laughing to his face. The roughness of it still clings onto his words, but the moron is way too into himself to notice. “Maybe some other time.”

The man’s all over the place, standing on the bench to gather his rink mates around him as he tells the tale of his last free skate like an epic legend. Impressive as it was, he’s still irritating as fuck. Otabek slips out of the rink and into the cold breeze of Vancouver sneaking around his scarf, cradling him as he leans against the glass doors. 

He’s a piece of work, that Leroy, and they’ve been together for barely a few hours. Otabek can already feel the nervous breakdown about to happen. Closes his eyes and watches himself chasing the idiot wielding one of his skates as a sword. 

And yet.

He was kinda nice, wasn’t he? Apart from the need to constantly stand out and talk loud enough for all the neighbourhood to hear and. Maybe it won’t go as bad as the last time.

Maybe he’ll breathe more easily this time around. 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _ You’ve been hiding things from me!” _

 

Otabek wakes up, sore all over from last night’s set he agreed on pulling on a really short notice after the usual DJ got suddenly sick. Food poisoning, she said. And he knew from a start what a terrible idea it was to take her shift: there's a reason why he only does Saturdays. Specially mid-season, during the hardest training sessions of the year. He should have known better. He stretches, refusing to get off his bed and the pins and needles all across his muscles become sharp pains trailing down from his shoulderblades to his calves. He’s been hit and kicked and shoved into walls before; nothing felt as bad as a hungover after a long day on the rink.

He groans as he folds back into himself, trying to stop the aching. And the drumming on his head, holy fuck the  _ drumming. _ It’s like his brain is kicking him from the inside for accepting every free shot heading his way all night long; and they were quite a few. The flickering light on his cellphone that lets him know there’s a new text isn’t helping either: he unblocks it to make it stop, squinting at the too bright screen when he sees it. A text from JJ. What the fuck does  _ he _ want?

JJ never really texts him; he’s learnt there’s no point to it soon enough, after a long series of read yet unanswered messages. And some whining. And maybe a bit too violent response from Otabek explaining he had absolutely no intention of mingling with him, where he might or might not have called him an ‘obnoxious clingy bastard’. That may have been a bit much, Otabek reckons, but in his defense it was almost midnight and the guy was  _ still texting him. _

They only text each other about their careers now, and nothing else, so Otabek’s truly confused when he reads it. 

“ _ You’ve been hiding things from me!” _ And he can’t quite decide whether JJ is offended or amused. If amused, it could mean pretty much anything: he’s had yelled at Otabek loud enough for the whole rink to hear he’s been screwing around on a particularly quiet Monday morning. Just because the Kazakh accidentally dropped a box of condoms out of his bag. Open. Empty. 

It isn’t even that big of a deal, Otabek’s sixteen, not twelve. It’s been a few weeks and he still doesn’t dare to confess how shocked he felt when JJ let out the phrase ‘you sly little devil’ in the same not-so-secretive tone; torn in between running off out of shame or challenge him with his own stories.  _ You have no idea, Leroy. _ Luckily, he opted for just shrug him off and get on the ice to start the practice. 

Otabek knows amused JJ is an idiot, but offended? JJ’s never been pissed at him before. They’re not even close enough for Otabek to barge into his personal affairs. Could it be because of something that happened last night? He’s pretty sure he remembers all of it: he was way too exhausted to do anything remotely risky. Or anyone, for that matter. He didn’t even get down from the DJ booth but to go to the bathroom, and even then he ignored every club attendant in his way. Except for Bella, but he knew her from the rink already, it would’ve been impolite not to answer her. 

Wait. Could it be  _ because _ of Isabella? Otabek knows about the obvious special treatment JJ gives her over his other flings, or fans, or whatever they are. She’s the only one who’s actually allowed to see the practices, for fuck’s sake; the guy’s pretty straight forward as he is. And Otabek’s positive he hasn’t done anything to her that can be remotely considered as flirting. The girl’s nice, and she tries hard to relate to him only because of JJ. It’s a sweet gesture, but that’s about it.

Unless there’s something Otabek  _ doesn’t _ remember. There was a lot of booze involved, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d do something completely stupid while intoxicated; not hitting on an acquaintance's love interest, sure, but there has been some other stupid shit for sure.

The effort he makes on deciphering the text makes the throbbing on his temple come back with a vengeance; he groans loudly again, falling face first into his pillow. He doesn’t have the strength to ask what the fuck JJ means with it; he’s gonna have to meet him anyways. Otabek curses his bad habit of picking up invitation out of guilt for rejecting too many of them before. And, in this case, timing them poorly: now he has to pull himself together to meet all of his rink mates for lunch without looking like a freshly reanimated corpse. At a cafe twenty minutes away. In an  _ hour. _ He gets up and runs to the shower, leaving a trail of scattered clothes along the way. He ignores the painful way his wobbly legs threaten to give in under his weight; he can deal with the hangover and the exhaustion later. He’ll have to take care of a certain loudmouthed moron first. 

 

He arrives late to the cafe, of course he does: he had to spend a good time under the hot shower for his limbs to come back to life, and a good time afterwards scrubbing off every trace of black still circling his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. He’s not in the mood or has the fucking patience to be asked about the heavy coat of dark makeup he wears on weekend nights. Or anything about his weekends, for that matter: more often than not they end up badly and these are people he’s gonna have to see everyday for a long time still. Fairly nice people, too; he wouldn’t like to find out otherwise. It’s best to keep it all private, just in case. 

It’s not hard to find the right table, even when it’s the one shoved at the far back; JJ is already sitting at the couch against the wall, waving and yelling at him to sit right by his side. It’s either that or next to ten other people he barely remembers the name of; as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t really have a choice. 

“We’ve already ordered for you, since you’re  _ late. _ ” Leroy makes emphasis on the last word of his sentence as if there was a secret shared only by them two. Too bad Otabek has no idea what it’s about. He still shrinks into the seat out of sheer survival instinct at the screeching loud tone. Or at least that’s what he tells himself it is: he’s very much  _ not _ intimidated by the guy’s overwhelming need to be constantly in the spotlight, dragging whoever’s around with him. Otabek feels an arm creeping across the back of his seat, yet not coming down to his shoulder as he thought it would; at least JJ still remembers that. “You’re drinking beer, right?”

His guts twist into a knot at the sound of the word; he has drank enough last night to make him sick for a lifetime and for the life of him, he will  _ not _ drink again. So soon. “I’ll just order some water.” 

“What’s that? Tough guy Altin is backing up? It’s just a beer, man!” JJ jokes and Otabek just glares at him silently; he can feel the wave of laughter around them die progressively, the gazes set on him. The sound of chairs slightly moving away. Still, JJ doesn’t even notice. “Or were you pregaming too hard last night?”

Last night?

Was he even there? No, he’s too loud, Otabek would have noticed. Isabella must have told him something then. The question is what? 

Did Otabek really did something awful enough to shock JJ? And in front of her? He has no interest on her, but she’s too sweet; it’d still pain him if she were disgusted by him.

People pretty much always were. Eventually. 

Otabek still plays dumb. He’s not that much of an idiot to give Leroy more motive to talk about him. “What about last night?”

JJ snorts, turning to him as the waitress comes by holding a large pizza and a jug of ale. “That you haven’t told me you were going out!” 

Otabek politely asks the waitress for a bottle of water for him and replies as she leaves, not even bothering to look at the guy who’s still making his face of mock offense behind his back. “I went out. So?”

“So?” JJ repeats exasperatedly, earning the attention from the whole group. “I didn’t even know you _ knew _ what a club looked like from the inside! And then Isabella comes around and tells me you even know the employees form the place by first name basis!” sure he does, but only because that’s how they introduced themselves: he can’t really tell if the Friday night DJ is actually called Amber or if it’s just a pseudonym. 

JJ sinks into the excitement of his fresh new discovery and pats Otabek hardly on his back, who glares daggers at the oblivious idiot, more offended than relieved for some reason. He’s spent too much time hovering around bars and club and shitty fucking basements to know it’s not something to be proud about. And yet. 

At least he knows now Leroy’s not pissed at him. At least he recoils in due time, putting his hand away. 

Why the hell does Otabek even care if the guy was offended, anyways? 

The conversation moves quick enough to his mate’s night outs, studies, and pretty much all of those thing he doesn’t really know about. That he doesn’t really care to know, either. He finds it easy to zone out of the conversation,even when he feel every wave of laughter like a parade of sledgehammers colliding against his skull in perfect synch. He realizes JJ has noticed the wincing, the teeth gritting at every joke; he wonders if the man considers it a sign of actual pain or just some bad mood. 

He doesn’t get a chance to think about it, as JJ’s hands find their way onto his shoulders, jerking him awake with a squeeze. “Earth to Altin. Still with us, mate?” He chuckles and Otabek just stares. If having to listen to him at the rink all day long was bad already, having him  _ so damn close _ during a killing hangover and all touchy is a hundred times worse. “Answer the girl, man, don’t be rude!”

Oh. He turns to the girl sitting right in front of him, smiling small and fidgeting under the table. Clearly waiting for a response on a question he did not hear. “Sorry, I got distracted.” He tries to sound as further away from ‘I wasn’t really interested in what you have to say’ as possible. Successfully, apparently, since she waves his concern away with a faint blush on her face.

He remembers her from the rink: green eyes bright under long lashes, piercing through the curtain of pitch black hair she uses to tie back tightly into a bun on practice. Soft spoken, shy yet somehow cheerful: graceful as if she weighed nothing, on and off the ice. Beautiful, he has to admit. She tried a quad the day before, early in the morning, and fell so hard on her side she was put off the ice for the rest of the day; she was even limping, that much he remembers. People were calling out her name, coming closer to check if she was alright…

Fuck, what was it? Last name is definitely foreign to him, sounded Indian to his ears, but the first name’s French. More so, popular, common. Shit, the girl’s always around him, skating the same hours as him, he should know it. There’s a little chain with name tags on it linked on her bag’s zipper: it rattles at her every step. Her name’s engraved there, he’s read it. He’s seen it a million times. He’s heard it a million times. What the fuck did the tags say?

“What was that question again,” Otabek speaks calmly to hide the almost imperceptible hesitation in his words, “Emma?” 

The girl’s smile falters and something sinks into his chest. He got it wrong, didn’t he? He screwed up. This is why he doesn’t talk to people, it’s just so much easier to-

She covers her face with her hand, blushing bright pink up to the tip of her ears and folding into herself. There’s a snort and a nudge from the guy besides her, that turns into general laughter. He doesn’t really get the joke, or the reaction for that matter. He must have gotten something really wrong. 

“You called me by my name.” She says, after a long pause, peeping through her fingers. “You never call people by their names.”

Otabek opens his mouth to reply, yet closes it again. ‘I can’t remember your last name’ seems too rude to say out loud. He goes for the next sentence that pops up into his mind. “I can stop if it bothers you-”

“No!” She stand up suddenly, arms stretched in front of her and palms flat. Her face goes from flushed pink to crimson red in a second; that doesn’t look like anger. In fact, Otabek can think of only one thing that can cause someone to act that way, which strikes him as straight up unlikely. Why would anyone check on him when they skate with  _ the _ JJ Leroy, as irritating as he is?

He is a great and talented skater. And kind of handsome, even. 

Still incredibly irritating, Otabek repeats to himself just in case. 

“Fine, Emma,” he tests his theory as he practically  _ purrs _ the name, rolling out of his lips smooth and sweet as dripping honey. The girl sits back down, shoulders stiff and looking straight at her lap. “What was it you wanted to know?” 

“Um, you… Isabella said…” Emma stutters and mumbles, tripping over her own words. He suppresses the smug smirk that threatens to surface on his face: it’s amusing, really, to see squirm on her seat and hesitate. He’s too used to self-absorbed vixens, calculating every move; too used to selfish dirty men looking for a sloppy quick fuck and nothing more. This, on the other hand, is different. This is fun. 

“Bella was celebrating something, wasn’t she?”  _ Drunk _ , he means, but it sounds too rough an accusation to make about her. She was cheerful last night, sure, but that was about it. And he wouldn’t even dare be such a hypocrite when he had to use all of his willpower to make his feet walk in a straight line by the time he met her. He cringes at the thought: there’s a lot of flaws in his personality, but that is one he will never allow, a family heirloom he’s not taking for himself. 

“Yes!” Emma chirps in, a bit too excited, and takes  moment, a few breaths before keep on going, gaze fixed on her hands under the table. “She didn’t imagine it, though.” She mumbles, focused on whatever she’s doing with her hands on her lap. He bites down the thought of walking up to her to check what the hell is so interesting. What could have Bella  _ not _ imagine, anyways? “She texted me at three in the morning.”

A chill runs down his spine when he takes the phone she offers to him, as if a wave of electricity ran from the device to his fingertips and directly into his bones, shaking him to the core.  _ Isabella had taken a picture. _ When did that even happen? The image is blurry, unsteady, but clear enough: there he is, tight black shirt barely crawling up his hipbones, a strip of tanned skin peeking from above the waistband of his skinny worn out jeans, glistening under the black lights. One hand gripping the neck of a beer bottle in between two fingers while still wrapped around his headphones; the other splayed out over the buttons of the console. Otabek’s not even sure at what point in the night he’s switched his water bottle for beer. 

That would explained the rioting of his brain inside his skull, kicking him awake and back into reality. 

He doesn’t dare say anything, glaring at the bright screen as if he could make the picture, the whole fucking encounter with Bella,  _ unhappen. _

He doesn’t need to say a thing. “Is that for real?” JJ practically shouts, way too close to his ear, slamming both hands against the table. Can he make a bit more of a racket now? A not-quite murmur rises from the table, yet Otabek’s sitting way too close to Leroy (and how he regrets that decision) for his ears to focus in anything else; the guy could drown out anyone with that enthusiasm. “They let you in the DJ booth? That’s so cool, man!”

Damn, the guy’s thick. Otabek tilts his head at him slightly; he still decides to follow the lead. To not give any more information than he must. “Yes. The DJ got sick and needed a replacement,”

“And they-? Wait...” JJ leans on his elbows, propped on the table, to stare deeply into him while processing the information. It’s taking him a good while, really.

It doesn’t take that much for  _ her _ . “Oh my God, is it true, then? You were DJing the whole night last night?” Emma bursts out and promptly covers her mouth with her hands, embarrassed. All wide eyes and cheeks flushed red: it’s amusing. It’s endearing. It’s  _ cute,  _ Otabek thinks; his lips barely twitching upwards. 

He can hear JJ cackling by his side at the reaction; he needs to figure out a way to shut the moron up before he really gives him and punches his teeth down his throat. His mouth speaks before he can think of what to say. “My shifts are one Saturday night, actually.” Otabek winces inwardly: that’s too much more talking than he was planning on doing with his rink mates. And next to JJ, the blabbermouth, no less. 

This could all blow up in his face so easily the idea makes him shiver. He still wears a confidence he knows he doesn’t own as he keeps on speaking ,trying to avoid any question that would force him on giving in even more details he doesn’t wanna speak about. “That is,” he looks straight at Emma, who seems to flinch at the sudden intense eye contact, “if you wanted to come.” 

Emma’s hands shoot up from her mouth the shield her whole face, folding onto herself until she’s practically under the table. The rest of the rink mates are either shocked silent or whispering their astonishment in a colorful vocabulary. Leroy only laughs harder, surprised, but it’s not until the guy actually  _ at his back _ that Otabek realizes how the phrase sounded like. 

Damn this language. 

Still, the idiot has to open his mouth and sink himself even further. “You sly little devil, is that what you do off the ice?”

Otabek could have reacted differently, softer. He could have just asked. Even glaring at the guy might have been enough. Even standing up and leave. But the connotation of JJ’s words pushed a switch on him that sent his façade stumbling down in a blink of an eye. He dares assume he knows Otabek enough to guess any aspect of his life at all. What he does on his free time. JJ can’t even  _ begin to imagine _ the things that he does when he’s not training. The thing that  _ are done _ to him. Things he’s far too ashamed to confess; things he’s not strong enough to just make them disappear. Things he’s not strong enough to stop.

JJ can’t even think of them as a possibility, he doesn’t know shit.  _ He doesn’t know _ , Otabek repeats to himself as he lets go of the death grip on JJ’s wrist, already bruising a telltale pink mark on his skin. “I’m sorry. I-”

“I know, I know. No touching.” JJ lifts his hands as a sign of surrender to pull them closer to himself and brush the stinging of his wrist a second after. “My bad. You’ve got some fire in you, don’t you?”

Yes, he does, of course he does. He bears the burns of the embers of other people’s bodies on his skin, the bitter taste of cum and the invading warmth of their tongues in his mouth. He’s been lit up in between caresses and licks and thrusts he did not ask for, his core turnt into coal, burnt out and pitch black, demanding to be engulfed again in the flames of another. He can calm the urges on the coolness of the ice, on the soothing tremor of music, on the shameful hidden smoke of a cigarette. Yet he can do nothing but listen every time the worlds comes crashing down on him, a weight too heavy for his shoulders.

Otabek wants to defend himself, to make JJ understand he can’t help it, there’s a rage inside of him that washes over at the playfulness of the guy’s voice. A rage like scolding hot magma, licking his scars open, leaving behind a trail of pain and ash and debris. 

But JJ doesn’t know, he doesn’t have to. He mustn’t. Otabek can’t allow anyone else to get closer, not again. He cringes at the thought of Leo putting up with him, feeling responsible for him, and who knows, maybe even guilty. The boy was charming and kind, barely ever said a word about any of it: the sudden nights out on weekdays, the stale cigarette smoke on his clothes, the booze, the bruises… He never complained, a perpetual smile on his face, throughout the bar fights, the nights in jail. At least Otabek has never been so careless to put Leo down with him, not that low. 

He’s kissed Leo. Well, not quite, but he had gotten Leo drunk and pushed him into a moshpit, so the blame’s still on Otabek. Who did let himself go, groping and touching his friend as much as he could before noticing what he was doing. Out of sheer force of habit, sure, but still; the guilt, the dirt is still there even when Leo keeps joking about that night, shrugging it all off. The ash of Otabek’s own filth clings onto his fingertips, corrupting everything he touches; he’s sure he left a permanent mark on Leo, no matter how hard he tried to push him away from the thought. No matter how much he assures Otabek he loved having him as a roommate, spending time with him. Having their own song. 

Fire breeds life and fuel strong wills. Fire can also consume and destroy and leave nothing but ruins at it’s step. One can easily become the other; Otabek’s still waiting for the shift to happen, for his flames to push him forward instead of burning him to the ground. The phoenix is supposed to raise from the ashes, but what is there’s just so much? What if he’s not the one who’s supposed to?

What if he’s left on the fire pit for good?

It’s better to just let JJ think it’s all because of his own aversion to physical contact. It’s funny: it’s the friendly gestures he can’t stand, he’s too used to be touched in other many ways so frequently that someone actually caring for him feels terrifying. As if he knows already he cannot correspond. 

“Just don’t do that again.” Otabek chooses to go for the safest option. Stop talking. Stop giving in. Get the hell out. The headache is numbing any warning signs on his head; he can’t stay much longer. “I need to go back, anyways.”

“Oh, come on, man! You’ve barely even touched your food!” JJ protests, and he’s right; but in between the memories of last night still pulling his guts into a knot and the smell of burnt cheese and warm beer, he feels as if his stomach in doing somersaults inside of him. “It’s Saturday, have a bit of fun for once!”

The headache, the gurgling on the back of his throat, bile threatening to come up, the ringing in his ears… Otabek’s trying hard not to punch the idiot but his whole body is already taking a toll on his patience: he can’t put up with him for much longer. “I have  _ work to do _ tonight, JJ.” He says bitterly as he gets up, grabbing his helmet to pass by next to Emma on his wait out and whisper “you already know where that is, don’t you?” in her ear. The guys at the far side of the table lean onto it to not-so-subtly listen to the words they can’t quite understand. Emma’s breath catches in her throat as she nods for an answer, unable to say a thing. 

He walks away, hiding the smile on his face from them.  _ Adorable. _

He could get used to that.


	3. Chapter 3

Otabek’s done everything right so far: he’s carefully picked his meals and drank lots of water. He even took a nap, and that’s something he never does, before getting his music ready for the night.

Sure, he might have downed a shot of tequila as soon as he reached the bar to bury the thought of his rink mates dropping off uninvited to the club; he doesn’t know them enough to think they wouldn’t be capable of doing just that. He still did everything right before to nurse himself back to the world of the living, so he has the right to take a shot, doesn’t he?

He’s too busy, setting up his station as an automatic playlist buys him time to settle, to notice the waitress calling at him. He notices her only when she approaches him for behind to press an icy cold bottle against the back of his neck, making him jump from where he was squatting under the console. His head hits the table with a loud thud and he turns to scowl at her, who only giggles and leaves the open bottle next to him on the floor, and a little something on his console. He doesn’t stop her to ask, prepping his equipment as he sips on his drink. He has no idea why it was brought to him, but just one more beer after a pretty mild hangover can’t really do much to him, can it?

He notices it only when he stands up, carefully dodging the table edge, and lets it unfold on his fingers. She’s left a note for him in a handwriting he can’t recognize. Which isn’t really saying much: it could come from anyone who doesn't work there. Specially since it isn’t even signed.

_VIP table 4. Rock the place down. XXX_

That’s all. It doesn’t quite sound like Emma, Otabek guesses, but then again, it’s not like he’s spòken to her often or know the first thing about her. He had trouble remembering her damn name, after all. Anyways, he can’t be bothered with thinking about it right now: anything outside the DJ booth doesn’t matter anymore. He gulps the last of his beer and puts it aside to start his shift.

Darkness slashed out by quick colorful strands of flickering light; an enchanting tune flowing from his fingers. It feels like home, like an embrace so subtle yet so tight all of the debris within him clutter and fall right back into place, edges sharp and uneven but still holding on. It’s nothing like the world out there of carefully crafted masks with double bladed silver tongues, of boxes to fit into and fists ready to scrap the unwanting bits off and mold you when you don’t. A world where nothing is never enough, no amount of blood and sweat and tears will ever soothe the beast trampling down on Otabek’s shoulders. But there’s none now, the tune gently caressing his hips, making him dance along. He loves the ice but it has never loved him back; the dancefloor is different. It asks for nothing and gives its all, a swirl of powerful bass lines shaking him to the core. Brushing off the venom life has bitten into him once too often.

The ice is a throne, a spot to earn, to be worthy of; it requires a sacrifice and he gives all he has to it. The dancefloor is common, loud and sticky, and always inviting, the real world discarded at the door.

Sometimes that’s exactly what he needs.

He lets the music wash him over, one hand clutching the headphone to his ear and one working the console, yet the rest of his body responds to the beat as if he was alone in the world. The waitress steps up with a shot for him and another note he doesn’t even bother to read as he downs the glass and gives it back. Nothing outside this booth matters, not right now.

It’s not the only one, either: he’s probably into three, maybe four more shots and a couple of cocktails by the time the automatic playlists starts again. He steps down to give room to the next DJ of the night, heading straight to the restrooms, his body still following unconsciously the rhythm blasting through the walls.

Otabek’s too focused on putting one foot after the other in a straight line, the alcohol already wreaking havoc on his system. He’s told himself he’d stop taking in every free shot coming his way and now he’s struggling not to crash against a wall. Well, there goes his resolution. Too focused still to notice the shadow moving towards him, a cocktail in one hand and a cellphone in the other; a freshly made, icy cold cocktail, he notices, as he crashes against them and half of it ends up on his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he starts mumbling and curses himself for his thick accent. _Too much booze for one night. Fuck, too much booze for two nights in a row._

“We need to stop meeting like this.” The girl (that’s definitely a girl’s voice) cuts him short in a chuckle, more pouting about the drink than offended. And that’s a tone he knows, a voice he knows but his clouded mind still needs a second to bring together the face, the voice, the expressions…

“Bella.” He says a little too sweet for his taste: she’s lovely, beautiful, yes, but that’s not his way. He doesn’t talk to his… Acquaintances’ love interests like that. He never does.

“Are you flirting with me?” she quirks her brow at him and he chokes on his words. _Damn it._ She giggles before he can excuse himself. “I’m messing with you, relax! Although… JJ is worried about you.”

“Worried?” He slurs and curses himself. Has he been actually flirting without realizing it? What the hell happen the other night?

“Well, jealous, more like. Because you call me Bella but call him Leroy, mostly.” she shrugs the thought off only to lean in and whisper in his ear. “Honestly? I can’t quite figure out if he’s jealous of you or me.” He cracks up laughing, louder than he thought he would; it takes her by surprise as well, by the way she steps back and looks at him. More like _admires him_ , if that’s possible, as if he was a painting on a wall or a sculpture she just crafted, a smirk on her face. “You should do that more.”

“What? Getting him jealous?” He tries to sound serious but in between the grin that won’t come off his face and the obvious accent on his words it all seems suddenly so _funny._ JJ jealous because of him, and not Isabella? That’s a first.

“If that’s what it takes… I meant that,” she says, taking a step closer to point straight at his face. “Laughing. You look cute when you laugh.”

Hasn’t he heard that one already? Looking cute is not his intention. Fuck, he’s supposed to be one of the next big names in the ice skating world, even when that doesn’t feel it’s even close to happen; a medalist, not a fucking teddy bear. He’s not _cute._ “Your breath smells like raspberries.” Well, that didn’t come out as he planned to. Why did he even say that? “Sorry, that’s weird.”

She only laughs it off, sipping on her glass. “I _am_ drinking raspberry vodka, you’re not wrong. Come with me, we’re waiting for you.” she practically pleas, pouting her lips.

He won’t ever admit how weak he is to people pouting at him; luckily she’s not close enough for him to be affected by it. The last time Leo pouted at him like that, they ended up singing together on the bed: he won’t be tricked like that again. “I’m here for a reason, I was going to-” he points right at the bright signals on the restrooms’ doors.

“Oh! Right, right.” she gestures at the dancefloor, a thumb pointing behind her back. “Well, you know where to find us, don’t you?”

“VIP table 4. I remember.”

“Good!. See you there.” She winks at him and with that, she fades into a sea of people. She winked at him. Just like Leroy did.

Why do they keep doing that?

Anyways, he’s got more urgent matters to attend right now.

* * *

“And the guy said ‘You need to listen, JJ, you can’t possibly do that’, and you know what?”

“You did it anyways?” Otabek cuts in, standing behind JJ and right in front of Emma who blushes furiously in a second without taking her eyes off him, practically hiding behind her bright colored drink. JJ doesn’t even flinch, and Isabella waves calmly; at least it’s only them three and not the whole damn rink.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Even on a busy club as this, JJ still finds the way to be loud enough to pierce through Otabek’s ears;  he pushes a chair back to invite the newcomer to the table as he orders one more round. He’s drinking nothing but beer, apparently, but by the way the bottle misses his lips at the first try he must have had a few already. “You took your sweet time, man.”

“I was _working,_ Leroy.” Otabek won’t admit the guy’s right. He just might have been approached as he was leaving the bathroom by some guy who tasted too much like liquor and honey to refuse him. Some guy that actually _asked_ before pushing him against a wall and run needy fingers through his hair, tracing his jawline, brushing his neck. Some guy who feasted on his mouth like Otabek was the last piece of food on Earth, and left him a half empty pack of (what a coincidence) his favourite brand of smokes for his troubles.

He might have been approached by some girl who straight up kissed him and took his smoke dangling in between his fingers to take a long drag. He might have tilted her head up, a thumb pushing her chin softly up, to gnaw at her lower lip as if to ask for permission, and kissed her raw until they were both out of breath, lips swollen red.

He might have seen, or thought he saw, something familiar out of the corner of his eye at the exact same time she was inviting him to get out of there with her. _Someone_ familiar.

He might have just remembered then he wasn’t alone tonight, and left the girl his smoke for her troubles.

“Interesting look you’ve got there, too. You always do that when you’re out?” JJ point at Otabek as if he was talking about the fucking weather. The boy fidgets under the table, pressing his lips in a thin line while trying to push down his suddenly too short tank top without JJ noticing. The guy, however, gets distracted by the waitress: she hands over two tequila sunrises for the girls, a beer for the gentleman, and a plus; a skull shaped bottle of something transparent, frosted white alongside a glass with ice. JJ just has to ask her. That is vodka. No, JJ didn’t order it. No, he doesn’t have to pay for it: workers drink on the house and she knows _exactly_ what Altin likes. She winks at Otabek as if to prove a point and leaves; he’s already gulping his first glass by the time his companions’ shock fade enough to stop staring at where she mingled into the crowd.

He feels the intense stare, now on him, as he pours himself another round. He wants to say something before they can, to explain something he knows doesn’t need explanation. He doesn’t mess with people at work, or the rink… He’s not that much of an idiot: he never hooks up with people too close to him. But then again, he’ll probably have to explain later who he _does_ hook up with, since there’s clearly someone. Some people.

Isabella just shrugs it all off, apparently the only one on the table not interested in his sex life at all. “Well, I think the look really suits you. Not anyone can pull that off so nicely.” she says while absentmindedly playing with her straw in between her fingers.

“I think _I_ could pull it off if I wanted to. Don’t you, Bella?” JJ purrs against her ear and she giggles, clearly falling for the cheap trick.

Otabek could just shut up and let them have their moment, focus on Emma who’s still seemingly shocked about the waitress’ words, but his imagination is faster than his common sense. He pictures JJ dressed all in black, a tight top with long mesh sleeves, his eyes caked in mascara and black eyeshadow, doing his signature move. He takes a sip of his glass to hide the smirk on his face: definitely _not_ JJ style.

“Please,” he doesn’t quite laugh yet the amusement is still pretty obvious in his tone, “you’re not _that_ good looking.”

JJ laughs it off and the girls promptly follow; he pulls an arm around Isabella’s shoulders to bring her closer to his chest and she giggles again. “What’s that, boy? You’ve been looking?” Otabek scoffs and blushes deep red. He hopes JJ dismisses it as the flush of alcohol already on his cheeks; he hopes the dim lightning hides it enough. “People have, y’know,” JJ continues, not quite slurring his words but still letting them flow a bit too long. He leans in on the table and would almost fall face first if it wasn’t for Otabek reacting quickly and holding back by his shoulders. JJ laughs and that is most definitely _not_ a sober laughter, uncoordinated and jagged. “People in the bathroom, man, they check you out. But really,” he squints his eyes either to get his point across or to stop feeling the world swirling around him. Otabek can’t decide which one is more accurate. “Like, really really.”

“JJ,” Otabek says in a monotone that pretends to be friendly. He doesn’t do friendly, not with him. “If someone tried to touch you or harass you in any way, we can always-”

“No!” JJ slumps back into his chair and pulls Isabella closer, cutting her conversation with Emma short with a little yelp from the girl. “No no no, no need to kick someone out, or kick someone, no. They stayed far enough, it’s fine. It’s just… Who does that?! Does it even work?”

Does it even work? Well… Otabek _has_ seen the guy from before checking him out before approaching, even following him into the bathroom. Waiting. And it did work.

It wasn’t the first time the trick got the best of him either. He’s positive it won’t even be the last.

He’s still not confessing such a thing to JJ. Not to the loudest blabbermouth in the whole of Canada. “By the things I’ve seen in there, I’d say it works just fine.” _It works just fine with me,_ he stops himself from adding.

“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Having to beg for love like that, hitting on strangers.” Emma comments as she quietly sips on her drink and something sinks on Otabek’s chest. She’s right, he knows it; it still feels like a dagger pushed through his ribs to hear it, loud and clear and so unmistakably real. And from her, no less. _If only she knew._

Otabek empties his glass and slams it back on the table, earning the group’s attention all to himself. “Sorry, I…” _I can’t put up with this charade for much longer,_ “I’m just tired. I’ll head home I guess.”

He gets up and heads out to the alley the workers use as a parking spot without even glancing back at the table, their voices calling out to him fading in the background music. Leans his back on the back wall of the club, letting the cold wash away the numbness on his limbs, a lighter sparking yet not catching flame in his hand, a cigarette hanging dangerously on his lips.

He curses at the damn lighter, at his hands trembling too much to produce a flame out of it. At the fucking world for putting him into such a situation. Otabek was almost proud of provoking such an innocent crush on someone; he didn’t even stop to think what someone like Emma would have to say about the darker sides of him. The more real parts of him. He didn’t stop to consider to horror she could feel, the disgust.

But it wasn’t that; Otabek can handle disgust. It wouldn’t be the first time he has to. Yet this was different. Emma was sad for people like him. Disappointed, even. And she didn’t even know who he was.

Good thing he never shared much with her, or any of them, for that matter. Good thing no one really knows him, not enough. He doesn’t feel like he can handle that kind of rejection again, not form the only people he feels at least a bit close to. And damn him if he even remembers all of his rinkmates’ names, but he still cares.

Otabek throws the useless lighter against the opposite wall of the alley in frustration and curses loudly again, pulling the unlit cigarette from his lips. He can’t even smoke without fucking failing.

He pulls his head back against the wall and winces at the sharp pain, pressing his eyes shut. He thought it would be calmer tonight, that he could control his impulses for once, yet there he is. Struggling in between the option of taking the bike and go back home to hide in his bed until morning, or diving into the first nightclub he can find.

Otabek expected it to be more like in the States: for better or for worse, Leo would always stay besides him. Otabek took perverts and assholes off their backs all the time, sure, but Leo knew how to protect Otabek from himself. Otabek expected Leroy and his crew to do the same.

He hoped for too much. He knows that now.

Otabek has to fight the urge to actually call Leo, telling himself it’s over four in the morning on a Sunday. There’s no point: Leo doesn’t need to be bothered by his needy nonsense, much less so early.

Much less when he finally has gotten rid of such a nuisance as Otabek knew he was.

He feels a presence next to him, and his face twists into a scowl, more honest than he has been all night, He just wants out. Back home. Back somewhere less hostile than here.

When he opens his eyes, there she is, holding a neon green lighter at the level of his eyes. Isabella clutches her coat tight against her chest with one arm while the other trembles slightly, fully extended to show her pace offering. He sighs and gives in, allowing her to light his cigarette and taking a long drag.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” She puts the lighter away, leans on the wall next to him. That’s one phrase Otabek has heard once too many times, but it was always different than this: there’s no sharp edges in her words, just plain curiosity.

He replies with the only thing he can think of, the sweet taste of his smoke melting in his throat. “Coach doesn’t either.”

She lifts her hands in the air. “I won’t tell. Promise.” She giggles and he can’t help but smile as he lets the smoke rise up from his lips. “I won’t tell any of it.” She adds in a lower tone, almost as if she was expecting him not to hear.

“Any of what?” Otabek thought it was a vision, an image in the corner of his mind reminding him he was not alone tonight. A mirage and not actually Isabella watching him fondle some strange girl in the dark.

“I can understand why you stormed off like that.” She speaks softly, as if any sound too loud could startle him and send him running off. He’s not offended, he means to say, just exhausted. Of him believing he’s actually moving forward. Of Life proving him most of his choices are only steps sideways. _He’s just tired._ “I do understand, but Emma means well, I promise. She just doesn’t know-”

“She doesn’t have to.” Otabek cuts her short way too fast and way too roughly for his taste. He hides behind the sweet smoke of his cigarette, looking away. She doesn’t seem to notice his tone, anyways.

“Told you, I’m not telling. Not about that, nor about…” Isabella pauses, hesitant. “I mean, by the way you looked… She wasn't the only one, was she?”

“Why do you care so much, Bella?” Otabek snaps at her. “How does that change anything?” She flinches, but not out of fear. There’s still something soft in her eyes, something he hasn’t seen in a while. It could be compassion. It could be pity.

“Look, I don’t care who you are… _with_ or not, or how many there are a week. I just want you to be comfortable around us. Around _me._ And JJ cares so much too, because you’re clearly not.” Isabella scolds him like a little child and he has to refrain himself from pull his head down and echo a soft “Yes, ma’am” as a reflex.

He pulls his shoulders back only to not letting her know how much he wants to listen to her, to yield a battle he’s fighting alone. There's no enemy, not really. “Why?” He repeats, honestly incredulous. She likes JJ, not him. Doesn’t she?

“Because I care about you!” she practically yells, exasperated, and immediately looks around as if someone could kick them away for screaming on the streets. “Friends care about each other. And I want you to tell me whatever it’ll make you feel more at ease around me.” He takes the cigarette back to his lips and Isabella takes advantage of the moment to take his free hand in between hers.

He flinches but doesn’t quite pull away, staring deep at their joined hands. “What if I don’t wanna tell you anything?”

Otabek feels a tidal wave wanting to break free, clashing inside his chest; a desperate need to reach out, fed on alcohol and false expectations and way too long a day. He wants to confess, to come clean. To _feel_ clean.

He tried once tonight. What makes her any different from the rest?

Other than the fact that she’s the only one not backing up from him. “Well,” Isabella starts, “I guess I can take that. But then again, you’re _already_ not telling me anything and you don’t feel much better, do you?”

He pulls his hands away from hers and discards his cigarette, crushing it under his foot. She doesn’t budge.

Maybe she’s different, after all.

Maybe he’s just lonely enough to take on any chance, any lifeline offered to him-. Even when he knows it’ll snap under the weight on his shoulders.

“Look, I’m trying,” he replies, more exhausted than actually angry. “ _This_  is what I get for trying to relate. I’m not meant to be around you. I’m not anything like any of you.”

“You don’t have to be.” Isabella starts but cuts her sentence short with a sigh. “You don’t have to _be_ JJ to get along. He’s… special. Always so cheerful and outgoing and positive-”

There’s something about the way her eyes glimmer when she talks about him that makes him sick. Not quite jealousy, he knows that much: he has no interest in her, after all. He wonders if anyone would ever talk about him like that. “Loud. He’s incredibly, irritatingly _loud._ There’s a reason why I stay away, Bella.”

“Fine.” She scoffs in mock offense but smiles soon after. “But I’m not like that. And I like him just fine.” She leans her side on the wall to look straight at Otabek, even though he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, at the opposite wall. His face unreadable as ever, yet his eyes starting to close on their own. “He’s not gonna judge you either, y’know.”

“He’ll _talk._ That’s bad enough.” He replies in a huff and turns to her; it’s still there, pushing towards him, trying to reach him. He chooses to look away and ignore the compassion in her eyes. “He’ll get scared, even. He’s that much of an idiot.” He says in a bitter chuckle.

“No, why?” Isabella protests, pouting, and Otabek wants to reach out and hug that frown off her face so bad. He doesn’t move. “He won’t get scared for you, he wants to be your friend so bad!”

But Otabek knows JJ will. By his sole reaction at other people flirting with him, other _men_ flirting with him. He knows Leroy will either run off, or try to convert him or hide him in some way. They always do, the well-intended people. Otabek’s not so damaged anyways; he still likes women, there’s still a chance, right?

But this is JJ. He can’t just punch the moron’s teeth in; he’s a rinkmate, a colleague, a competitor. He could lose it all for starting a fight he can’t even explain without proclaiming to the world something he can’t even mention to himself.

No, he can’t know. It will only end up in disaster. Otabek smiles, gritting his teeth , and Isabella doesn’t seem to notice the rage on his gesture. “Yes. Of the person he thinks I am, not of _this.”_ And he pretty much spits out the last words as if it was bile climbing up his throat, becoming acrid on his mouth.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Otabek-”

“There is to his standards.” There is so much wrong with him, so much wrong _in_ him. He’s rotten, filthy, fed of vices and lust and the challenge that is to get away with it. And the need to reach his Yuri one day. But that is probably the last unsoiled piece of him: his memory of little Yuri Plisetsky, and the fire within him, a brutal force that could swipe off all the debris in the bat of an eye. The kid’s got magic on those eyes for sure.

Otabek won’t tell her that, of course. He’s pissed off drunk enough to swaddle if he dares move off the wall, enough to be in the verge of falling asleep on his feet, but he’s still not that stupid. “He got scared when he found out I work at a gay friendly club, how do you think he’s gonna feel when he realizes how I even got here? You think he’d be happy for me?” She tries to chime in but she’s not fast enough or not daring enough; he can hear the venomous tone on his voice. He can’t quite blame her. “You think he wouldn’t run as he did from some random dude that didn’t even get close to him?”

“Wait, do you mean?.. I mean, you can’t possibly…” Isabella frowns, trying to think of the possibilities, but she’s been drinking quite her share as well, and almost slumps backwards. She clutches on the wall for support. “You were making out with a girl, weren’t you?”

Otabek rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. She was supposed to be different. She was supposed to be the one that understands him. He needs someone around, someone close he can hold on to, but maybe this time they’ll be no one. Maybe he’ll finally have to deal with being alone.

He stands up and his body feels heavier than he thought, knees bending under his weight; he takes a step forward and stays completely still, the world spinning around him so fast he feels his insides turning to mush. He jiggles his keys inside his pocket but feels a tug on his arm when he takes them out.

“No! Leave it!” Isabella clutches desperately at his bicep, pulling him further away from his bike even though she clearly doesn’t have the strength to do so. He doesn’t budge but doesn’t stop her either, curious. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, you can’t drive like that!”

Oh. right. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it, really. The fast wind on his cheeks wakes him up enough to get him home safe, even when his grip on the handlebars shakes slightly from time to time. But it’s been a while since the last time someone actually tried to stop him from hurting himself. It’s not like he was about to right now, but still. He stares at her, maybe a bit much; she shakes him awake. “Let me get you a cab, okay? I need to know you’ll get home safely.” Huh. she’s seriously worried, isn’t she? Otabek barely realizes he’s smiling. “Please?”

Otabek gives in, letting her guide him back to the main street. Isabella lets him go for a minute to stop the first empty taxi she can find, and goes back to him to guide him inside. He chuckles, sincerely this time; she’s so afraid of what might happen to him she’s handling him as if he was a fragile old man. Well, he’s disoriented enough for it, at least.

Isabella then sits by his side, pulling a hand to him, as if asking for something. He doesn’t quite reach to make the question, but it certainly climbs up to his face. “Your cellphone.” He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t care anymore. She could smash it or throw it out the window, whatever. He just wants to get home. Instead she gives it back soon enough. “Let me know when you get home, okay?”

She gets up and closes the door behind her, waving as the car moves away. Otabek barely hears the question, he has to ask again. The driver huffs at his obvious foreign and way-too-intoxicated accent. “I said ‘where are we going?’”

He should just go back home, take a shower and go to bed. Or not even that: just get straight to bed with his clothes on and pass out, let it all be a problem for the morning after. It’s probably too late to do otherwise anyways, he should be resting by now. He takes his cellphone out and stops before unblocking it, the reflection on the black screen smiling back at him.

He should rest, yeah, but he could also let this warmth inside of him linger on for a bit. He leans back into the seat, grinning unconsciously; maybe she’s different.

She’s definitely quite something.

He makes up his mind soon enough. “There’s a place I’d like to see.”


	4. Chapter 4

He can do this, Otabek repeats to himself, staring at the ice under his feet. He’s survived enough battles, bled his heart out and he’s still standing tall. Even in tired wobbly legs, bruising bright blue underneath the fabric of his training gear. He closes his eyes as he speeds up backwards, adrenaline already flowing madly through his veins, making it all feel like it’s in slow motion. He closes his eyes to stop his mind from going for every possible bad scenario, and lets himself go.

He hears the thud of his blades against the ice before he can understand what just happened; his own name ringing in his ears like a warcry. He opens his eyes to see his baffled coach, eyes wide and completely still. He told Otabek he’d have one more chance; one more fall and he’d be off the ice for the rest of the day. A hand on his shoulder yanks him back into reality, a too enthusiastic tone right next to him. 

“You did it!” JJ pats on his shoulder and Otabek’s legs suddenly remember the pain of every failed jump, knees bending under his own weight. He holds onto the guy’s shoulder and a hand snakes across his back to perch him up. “Hey, don’t give up now! You’ve made it, man!” JJ grabs Otabek’s arm to pull it around his shoulders. “You just aced a perfect triple axel. You must be so thrilled!” He leans over Otabek’s ear who’s both too tired and still too stunned to answer, to at least pull back. He can’t pull back, really: he knows he’ll fall flat on his ass if he untangles himself from JJ’s embrace. He’d rather just resist the urge this time. “You should probably rest, let’s get you off the ice, yeah?” 

Otabek allows Leroy to lead him out by his middle; leans like a dead weight against the rink walls to let JJ click his guards back in place and follows absentmindedly to the locker room. He slumps down on the first bench he set eyes on and closes his eyes, almost unaware of JJ kneeling before him, untying his skates. He shivers as a wave of fire rushes through his muscles, jolting him awake as JJ starts massaging the plant of his feet. He then realizes the guy has been talking to him. “What?” His own voice feels sleepy to his ears.

JJ laughs before replying. “You were pissed the other night. Bella told me.” Otabek cringes at the thought of whatever  _ else _ she might have spilled. “I’m not really sure why but let me make it up to you, okay?” JJ digs his fingers on the sore flesh of his foot thoroughly, his hands traveling up his calf, muscles tensing and stinging as if they were being stretched off their limits, trying to pull back. Otabek suddenly jerk his leg away as a reflex. “Hey, I know it hurts but I have to do this, alright? Give it.” JJ scolds with a smile plastered on his face and Otabek just wants to kick his head so bad; even the position is perfect for it, but he resists the urge. He still scoffs as a response. He barely gasps at the touch of expert fingers against his inner thigh, warm even through the fabric. JJ shifts quickly to his other foot, starting the process again, and Otabek barely makes a sound this time. He’s fell on the same side all this time, after all. “So, what’s it gonna be? You’ll go out with us? We need to celebrate for today! Isabella will be so happy to hear about your axel!” JJ practically shouts and Otabek flinches away from the death grip on his thigh. He only gets a cackle from the diot, slowly rising from his knees. “We should also drink for you not busting anything: you were putting up quite a show out there. The determination, man! I thought your coach was gonna lose his voice from yelling at you so much and you still didn’t stop!

Otabek stands up, the soreness of his body tucked away for a bit after the massage but still exhausted. He can’t even recall how many times he jumped, how many times he fell: he lost count after the third one, determined not to stop until he got it right. He still can’t believe he finally did it. He can’t believe he’s one step closer, he’s definitely pushing forward, finally going somewhere. He smiles as he pulls a leg on the bench, bending over it to stretch his sore muscles. Otabek hears JJ ask again and chooses to stop ignoring him. 

He does have something to celebrate this time, doesn’t he?

He lifts his head up to change legs before answering. “Sure. Let’s.” short and as monotonous as he can make it.

He still feels a hard pat in between his shoulder blades as he bends back down, a chuckle behind him.”Good! Next Friday, maybe? Since you work on Saturdays. I’ll let Bella know you said yes. Drinks are on me!” JJ’s voice drifts off, as if he were walking out. 

“Wait!” Otabek react before JJ can actually cross the doorstep. “Saturday. I can change my shift.”  _ and I much rather have some time to myself after an entire evening with you, Bella or not.  _ He bites his tongue before he speaks up. 

JJ just beams, grinning from ear to ear. “Saturday it is!” and he bolts out the door, leaving Otabek with a weird feeling in his gut. 

It can’t possibly go  _ that _ badly, can it? Isabella will be there, after all. 

He sighs and goes back to his stretches; there’s still a whole week ahead of him to worry about before then. It’ll be just fine. 

### 

 

JJ insisted on choosing the place since the club Otabek works at was ‘a bit way too dodgy for him, no offense.’ He promised to avoid fan reunions too, but Otabek knows JJ’s still big enough of a celebrity around the rink to be recognized anyways. The bar he chose is too close to it to be an exception.

Unlike he normally does JJ actually arrives late. Well, later: Otabek’s aware he was half an hour early and took his time to have a beer in peace before meeting the guy. JJ got so excited about him agreeing to go out that he was constantly around Otabek, somehow managing to be even more annoying than usual. And that’s saying something. Still, he was there enough to mark the flaws on his skating, to improve his moves on the ice. Otabek has to admit JJ is actually a good teacher.

He notices the exact moment JJ walks into the bar because the moron  _ announces it _ , doing his signature pose and shouting. “The King’s in the house!” like the fucking diva he is. There are fans cluttering around him, because of course there are, and Otabek reckons this is his chance to ask for a shot before ‘The King’ gets set free. He wonders what exactly could this ‘kingdom’ of his be if he has to state over and over that he’s the ruler. He chuckles over his glass and gulps its content down before JJ can reach up to him. 

“What are we drinking tonight?” JJsits right next to him, elbow on the bar, loud enough for the whole place to hear. As if he wasn’t obnoxious enough to be noticed the second he walks in already. “You started without me?” He point at the empty glasses in front of Otabek. 

“Place’s own brew.” Otabek ignores the shot glass and answers in a flat monotone, gesturing the bartender for another round of beers. “You came alone.”

“Um, yeah…” JJ rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly as the tender leaves two glasses in front of them. He takes his time to taste his drink before speaking replying. “She said she wasn’t feeling well, that I should just go out with you instead. I offered to go take care of her but... “ He shrugs and takes another sip. Of course, Isabella is a minor living with her parents: having some stranger in the house because she’s sick would be nothing but trouble. Even when Otabek’s certain JJ must be hardly a stranger there, knowing Isabella’s fascination with him. “This is really good, man. Good eye.”

“ _ You _ chose the place, Leroy.” Otabek resist the urge to roll his eyes at the guy. He really dragged them both to a place he didn’t even known, and really insistently so? He repeatedly said they had to come to this bar and this bar alone. “I was hoping you knew where we were going.”

“Kind of. I mean, I pass by this place everyday on my way to the rink and it looks so cool… I didn’t know their beer kicked ass, too!” JJ takes a long gulp as if to prove his point and winces as he slams his glass against the bar. Otabek just stares. Fine, it’s slightly stronger than the watered down cat piss they serve at a bar and call ‘beer’ just to have something remotely similar, but it’s not  _ that _ strong. Either JJ’s overreaction, or he really is a lightweight. Otabek cringes at the possibility of having to deal with a drunk, even more obnoxiously loud than usual JJ, most likely really friendly and  _ touchy.  _ And who just happens to weigh almost twice as he does. 

It’s probably for the best that Isabella hasn’t tagged along tonight, after all. There's no way she can watch the display Otabek is certain JJ is about to make and still have a crush on the idiot. Yet she’s seen Otabek pissed off drunk,  _ pathetic _ drunk, and decided to give him her number. Maybe she’s into lost causes, anyways. 

By the time JJ rants about his  _ flawless _ Senior debut routines for the fifth time Otabek’s already ordering his third shot. The guy’s good, that much Otabek knows. Too good, even; his performances focus on technical difficulty and stamina enough to pull any of his jumps at any point of the performance. He even aces almost every jump at his competitions. It’s like he was born in the ice, whether as Otabek has earned his place, maybe not with the grace of a dancer but with the fire of a warrior. 

Sure, Leroy’s good,. But that doesn’t make his rant about how he’s gonna kick Nikiforov’s ass into retirement any less annoying. 

“... And I’ll take you with me!” 

“Huh?” Otabek zoned out at some point, focusing on their reflection in the mirror behind the spirits. They look so much closer than he remembers they were, for some reason. Maybe it’s just his imagination or the dim lights playing with his eyes. Maybe it’s the drinking, although still pretty light. Maybe it is actually JJ trying to close the space between them. 

He realizes it’s the latter when he feels an arm draped over his shoulders. 

“The podium, man! Weren’t you listening? You should be there with me!” JJ yells, grinning like a madman and clutching Otabek closer; Otabek can only wince, unable to break free of the hard grip around his neck without actually hurting the guy. “I haven’t had a friend competing with me for a long time, y’know…” 

Otabek wants to correct him: They’re not friends, they’re rink mates. Fuck, he wouldn’t even be there if he knew about Isabella not coming. Then again, tonight has been her idea, her plan all along; Otabek can’t really tell if this wasn’t what she had in mind from the start. For them to spend time together of the ice, to bond. She mentioned quite a few times how badly JJ wants to be his friend, but that’s only because JJ doesn’t  _ know _ him. Neither does she, not really. They couldn’t possibly like someone as broken as him, as scarred; no one in their right mind does. It takes an outcast to understand another and they’re just so…  _ Nice. _

They’re the kind of people who should never know about Otabek’s other side of the coin. 

He can’t let JJ know,even when the guy’s voice falters, grows soft, like pleading for a hint of affection. 

He doesn’t correct JJ: that much he can do. 

“And JJ will take you up there, to celebrate with the King!” Leroy does his pose, an elbow leaned on the bar, and slips; his face doesn’t quite hit the bat but twists in shock as if it would. Otabek snorts. Chuckles. 

Fuck, the moron’s funny: he keeps stumbling off the stool and adjusting back, leaning on Otabek’s side for support. Otabek tries to stop the urge, but a rumble inside his gut starts growing through him, making his shoulder shiver. “Oh my God, you’re laughing!” JJ snaps, pointing at the boy still covering his mouth in an attempt to stop the laughing fit. It doesn't really seem to be working. “No no no,” JJ whines, “don’t cover yourself like that, you look so young, man. It’s so cute!” 

Otabek feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, his breathing jagged as he tries too hard to control it, a sharp pain stinging in his chest- He finally speaks as soon as he catches his breath. “Fuck you.”

JJ laughs, about to reply, but he gets cut short by a hand on both their shoulders, pulling them apart. He looks around, stunned at the guys surrounding them, but Otabek reacts quickly. He slaps the hand off of him and turns to face the stranger. The bastard smiles a sadistic grin Otabek knows a bit too much; he feels bile rising up his throat. He knows a bully when he sees one; and he’s seen enough of them. JJ, on the other side, smiles forcefully, terrified; he must know what’s coming to them, although he clearly doesn’t know why.

“Are you two lovebirds having a fun time in  _ our _ bar? Drinking  _ our _ beer?” The inflections on the bastard’s voice are barely noticeable but very much there; Otabek twist his mouth in disgust but says nothing. 

“Hey, hey thee, come on, guys,” JJ stands up to mediate in between them, palms flat in surrender in front of his body; the men at the bastard’s back start shuffling closer. Same frown, same shit, Otabek reckons; he refuses to show fear, no matter how many of them decide to show up. Fuck the place JJ picked: Otabek’s found his good share of homophobic cunts flocking pretty much everywhere, but these are different than the rest. These are  _ locals _ . He’ll have his payback with JJ in due time, but right now he’s more worried about finding a way to get him out of there. Even if it involves breaking a few skulls; specially if it involves just that. 

JJ still tries his best at debomb a situation he clearly hasn’t been in before, clearly can’t handle. “There’s room for everyone here! Look, listen- How about I buy guys the next round, huh?”

“We don’t want shit from you!” The bastard upfront roars and Otabek smirks: it’s an act. It’s like watching a handful of dogs on leashes, barking away; they don’t bite, they just like to make some noise. He knows they’ll back up at the first blow; cunts like them, who talk so much, always put on a show. They probably don’t even know how to throw a punch. 

Otabek’s not expecting the bastard to take his part so seriously, grabbing him by his chin and pulling him to the bastard’s face. Otabek hisses through his teeth, trying to stop himself from spitting the disgust knotting his gut on the guy’s face. His breath smells like something rancid and cheap scotch when he speaks so disgustingly close. “Why don’t you take this pretty little boytoy of yours and find your way out, huh?” 

It’s silly, he knows: it’s risky, and stupid and  _ so damn fun _ to pull the loose string until the whole curtain falls down. To see what’s underneath, to push. It’s stupid, specially with JJ right there, but it’s also an urge stronger than him; Otabek wants to see them losing their ground. “Are you flirting with me?” 

He feels the grip tightening against his jaw, JJ practically whispering him not to provoke them. The thing is, JJ clearly doesn’t know Otabek at all. 

“You’re not that pretty even for a faggot. Don’t flatter yourself.” The guy growls. Funny, the way his grip twitches when Otabek bites his lip, mostly to repress the chuckle than anything, says something else entirely. “You make me sick.”

“Watch it, then.” Otabek purrs softly, pulling out from the hand of the asshole already too stunned to hold him in place and over it, leaning close enough for their lips to not-quite-brush against each other. “It might just be contagious.” 

The bastard’s face twist in horror for just a fraction of a second before taking a step back and shoving Otabek back against the bar. No one seems to be even turning around to watch the show: what a shame. Otabek licks his lips and smirks at him; the guy’s showing off, puffing his chest out and snapping his knuckles. He won’t do shit. He still tries. “You have some guts, fag. Let’s see how brave you are when we beat that sissy grin off your face.” 

That’s weak; Otabek’s heard worse, he’s felt worse. These are nobodies trying to play tough. He could deal with them with his eyes closed and a hand tied behind his back.

But not him. He wasn’t expecting  _ him _ . 

“Hey, hold on, guys, no need to punch no one here!” JJ grins and it suddenly becomes the most sickening gesture Otabek has ever seen. He’s scared, yes, but he wants to  _ relate _ . To them. He feels the embers starting to ignite inside of him, the rage. 

Otabek silently prays to be wrong. 

“We’re just having a bit of a drink, as friends do- that’s all, just friends!” JJ laughs and every cackle is like a sharp dagger dug in between Otabek’s ribs, piercing the air out of his lungs; he knows he’s glaring at the moron, but he can’t stop himself. He knows what’s coming, he’d wish to cover his ears tight, to pull his heart out before listening. JJ is no one to him, not really, but he’s the one who tried. After that, this feels like treason. 

Or a really elaborated joke at Otabek’s expense. 

Or just him hoping too much of them. Again. There’s just no one to stand besides him anymore, is there? It’s just him against the current. And the tide is rising. 

“We’re not -of course we’re not!” JJ practically stutters, still in a too confident tone to make it honest. “We’re normal, man, just two regular guys hanging out, none of that- just normal.”

_ Just normal. _

Oh, he’s in for a big surprise.

Otabek can’t really count them, even if he had any interest in doing so. Not even all of them; just the guys. He can’t remembers who was there no more than once, who recognized him some time after and bought him the same drink they’ve met with. He never cared enough, never looked at their faces too much. 

How many partners is being  _ normal _ ? How many men?

What happens if you can’t remember? 

What happens if you never cared, as long as you could feel them around you, inside of you, roaring lewd noises into your ear? Is that normal?

Is  _ he _ normal?

Experience tells him when to rush his getaway: the already familiar feeling of his chest closing in, his voice wanting to hide away within him, the drumming in his ears. 

“Are we, now?”

Otabek’s barely aware of his voice leaving his lips, his fingertips tingling with the need for comfort, for a bright exit sign. He needs to get the fuck out. His moves are automatic, repeated one too many times, even though never like this. He takes JJ by his collar and traps his lips on his own, his tongue sliding inside of the guy’s mouth, dancing, tasting the lingering bitterness of home brewed beer and poisoned words. He’ll make JJ swallow them: he’ll get at least that satisfaction. 

When Otabek pulls apart it feels like it’s been years, drowned in the mist of alcohol and self doubt and sheer hatred. JJ looks flushed, shocked, completely still as if he’s stopped breathing altogether. 

“Now you’re not.” He shoves JJ off of him and turns to leave, disregarding the stupid taunts of the bastards around; he pushes one of them out of his way as if he was a ragdoll, splayed over a nearby table. Otabek doesn’t even turn around as he waves goodbye. “Welcome to the freakshow.”

He can see JJ being corralled against the bar by the guys. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care anymore.

He can’t seem to care anymore.

There was something in him, something he just lost and its rot pulls him away from the crime scene. Otabek doesn't want to think about it, but his mind can’t stop repeating it over and over.

He’s not normal.

He won’t ever be.

He can’t ever be.

Does that mean he’ll always be flawed, scarred, corrupt? Hiding in other people’s desires, in between dim light and thick smoke and hard touches. Is this all he can ever get to be?

Alone?

Is this what trusting in someone again feels like?

The stink of death inside of him makes his stomach turn; he hurries his step. It doesn’t matter where to, He just needs to lose himself again. To drown his thoughts away.

He just needs out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bad stuff is coming up next so brace yourselves. You might be horrified but you'll be warned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it: the problematic chapter. You can skip it if you want; I'l do a bit of a loose explanation of what happens here, even though all of otabek's internal monologue will be missing, for those who can't stomach this.  
> It's probably not as bad as I think but it was pretty bad in my head, so. just in case.  
> you've been warned.

He wants to believe it, wants his mind to shut up, but he can still hear it. JJ didn’t mean it, he’s just an idiot; idiots say stupid things. JJ didn’t mean it, he couldn't have, he was always so nice, he… 

He’s just another homophobic cunt then, isn’t he?

And Otabek can’t really blame him. He can’t blame any of them. There’s a chill in his spine, a tremor on his skin in every place he’s been touched by their filthy hands, tasted in a mock of cardboard love and too many shots of  _ real _ vodka, a shadow in the corner of his eye from every face he can’t even recognize. He never really remembers: he never cares to check much. 

He has a type, he knows that much by now. Available, eager and in a hurry; he’s not willing to bother to hunt them down, he might remember them if he does. Recognize them. Like them. 

Disposable, in and out and let’s never meet again. No names, no ages, no fucking phone numbers. Ever. Otabek’s seen a wedding band more than once; it’s not his place to ask. Not his place to judge. Not when his legs were still struggling to get him home after the exhaustion of the rink all day, the soreness of being bent over a wobbly filthy sink, and prodded and slapped and fucked until he felt his muscles give in, his mind lulled in a haze of fluorescent light and fading voices in the distance. Otabek felt the shame too, that much they had in common. Only that much. 

He’s aware of what he needs when he needs it. Otabek has never given into the silly superstitions of love: he doesn’t buy it, and it’s disgusting to even try. Love doesn’t exist in places like the ones Otabek’s going to right now, as he speed walks through the night. Love is a fluffy fairytale from a different reality. There’s no love in what he’s looking for, not that he requires it. No, he needs the world to melt around him, to disappear, and that’s not something the ice or music can do for him. This is an urge to escape, a thirst of adrenaline running through his veins. It’s a physical hunger he needs to put down, and there’s only one way he knows how. 

 

The music blasts loudly the second the bouncer opens the door for him. It’s ridiculous, there’s two flight of stairs to get to the shitty basement where the shitstain of a club is in and Otabek can still hear the music from the street. Poorly mixed, too. 

Whatever, Otabek’s not here to work; the words haven’t stopped swirling around his head all the way down here.  _ You’re not normal. _ No, of course he isn’t. JJ is, probably. The definition of a well established guy: handsome, charming, talented, known and followed; loud and charismatic enough for people to like him for it. And just a repetition of all Otabek’s been told people should be. Of all he’s been told he  _ should _ be. No dodgy nights out, no DJ booths and free shots and sticking your tongue down the throat of whoever’s buying the stuff since all their faces look alike in the dark and the mist of alcohol. No late night desperate calls to your sister and friends to wash off the dirt. No more hanging up on them before they can even take it. No more girly cigarettes and heavy smokey eyes and the coppery taste of blood on your lips. 

Good men don’t do any of those.  _ Normal  _ men don’t _.  _ Otabek shoves himself into the crowd to move towards the blue-lit bar at the side of the hall. Normal men don’t step into these places, filled to the brim with people groping and feeling each other up in various states of undress on the dance floor and against the walls. Normal men don’t go to places where they get their ass grabbed as they lean on the bar, two fingers right in between their cheeks and threatening to press enough for them to feel the threat through the fabric, and a loud and slippery “I’ll pay for him.” 

A normal man would bothered to look and see who was looming over his shoulder with a Cheshire cat smirk plastered on his face. A normal man not pick the strongest thing on the menu without hesitating. 

A normal man wouldn’t down a long drink as if it was a shot. A normal man would have refused the shot that followed.

A normal man would have pulled his hand away when Cheshire Smile decides it’s time for a more private conversation. 

Otabek asks for a random item on the menu without even looking and gulps it in a second before the amused gaze of the man; he can’t give two shits about what the guy thinks, or even how the drink tastes. It isn’t the point to notice what he’s drinking anyways. All he knows is that it’s been served in a now-empty martini glass and it was pitch black. And it might have gone down like firestarter, burning his throat at each step. The man takes his hand again and he feels the touch far off, a ghost tickling under his skin. Otabek smiles without noticing, without knowing why; it’s enough for Cheshire Smile to lead him to a more private location. 

The lights and the heat of other people's bodies against flash past his eyes; Otabek feels as if he’s on a road back on his bike, speeding way over his limits. The city passes by around him, without touching him no matter how much its lights try to reach; he lets his head fall backwards, feel the breeze against his face…

Otabek feels the cold touch of the sink against his stomach, his hand shifting forward to hold on for dear life, as his eyes desperately try to find a light in his own eyes that doesn’t exist anymore. It hasn’t for a long time now; he licks his numb dry lips while the guy mumbles something into his ear. Otabek can’t quite listen, he can’t quite focus. 

The man yanks his hair back, forcing him to pull his head up, to show his teeth. “Answer me or I’ll get pissed, you little slut,” he hisses in Otabek’s ear and something inside him screams to get out, to kick his way out, to bite him off. Anything, but not this, never this. “Tell me you want me all the way inside of you.” 

Otabek doesn’t answer, fixated on the deep brown of his own eyes in the mirror. He remembers them differently, he remembers them fonder, more ambitious, more daring. More alive. Now he feels like blinking is too much of an effort for to do willingly; he wants to turn back and leave, to punch his way out, to be alone. His body asks for something different. 

The man presses against him, the clear form of his erection against Otabek’s ass, and an undignified moan escapes the skater’s mouth. Otabek stares. That’s all Otabek can do, stare at the guy while he just prodes and caresses his back, running his fingernails along Otabek’s spine to his hip bones and all the way down to his ass, slapping him. Otabek flinches, sure, but he never answers, standing completely still as the man just toys around with him. The man doesn’t need any other reaction to encourage him but the muffled groans and whimpers his ministrations are pulling out of Otabek. 

Otabek hisses and it turns into a loud moan trapped in between his teeth as the man draws calloused hands down the waistband of his jeans to his crotch. Otabek’s body betrays him, following every command given and leaning into every touch, mewling words that should make Otabek fight back. And Otabek does want to, so badly; he feels the taste of bile and cheap liquor crawling up his throat, his reflection on the mirror distorting through the tears of shame he will not shed. Otabek won’t give the bastard the satisfaction. 

Otabek’s fingers clench tightly, knuckles white against the filthy porcelain of the sink, as his pants come undone and down just enough for the man’s hot rough fingers to pull back from where they were teasing the tip of his cock, already ready and twitching, to the dimples of Otabek’s back and stroll down, a damp touch around his ass and back up. Otabek’s eyes shut tightly as he feels rough fingers prodding around his entrance while the man’s hand holds him in place by his hip. The hand on Otabek’s hip shoots up to his hair and tugs. The force of it makes him clench his teeth and pull his head back. 

“Open your eyes, princess, and look at yourself.” Otabek groans as a finger slides inside of him, his body barely resisting. It curves and he clenches around it, opening his eyes wide, gasping for air: Otabek can see the thin layer of sweat gripping to his skin through the stained mirror, a tiny streak of a tear rolling down on one side, his eyes lidded with a lust he won’t confess. He still moans again as the guy moves inside of him, putting one more finger in and spreading Otabek open. “Look at the quivering mess you are.” And the words stick to Otabek’s ear, hot and moist and rancid of whiskey and stale cigarettes. 

The man’s hand moves in and out of Otabek, thrusting fast, mercilessly; Otabek wants out, away, but the jolt of pleasure running through his body pins him into place. Otabek hates it, but can’t get enough; he already knows what a coward he is, how much of a docile little pet, how much of a toy he is for them to play with. 

Otabek’s gaze lifts up as he hears the door opening, right in time for the guy to pull Otabek’s head back by the hair and lick a slippery streak from his collarbone to his jaw, insinuating a third finger inside in the process. Right in time for Otabek to almost scream over the music as he feels himself stretch to accommodate it, his whole skin prickling, his cock twitching against the cold sink. The new guy snaps his head back at the sound but proceeds to move to the urinals: it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen some guys fucking on a public bathroom in one of these places. Still, Otabek could swear he saw him lick his lips before turning around. 

Otabek’s gaze unconsciously focuses on the stranger’s back, right behind him, on the toned muscles the tight shirt can hardly hide. Otabek’s vision starts to blur as his eyes water, his voice trapped against his teeth as if to stop the sound. It doesn’t work: the man holding him still moans and presses his now uncovered damp erection against the small of Otabek’s back. The guy in the urinals is still looking and stares for a second too long. 

The hand on Otabek’s hair runs harshly against his skin leaving bright red trails all the way down to the waistband of his pants. “You’re that thirsty, huh, you little cunt?”  _ No, please don’t. _ “Do you want his cock as well?”

Otabek’s breath catches as the man quickly pulls out from inside of him then throws him to the ground; Otabek feels boneless, defenseless, a poorly stitched up ragdoll made of a thousand different patterns and smeared with filth. 

 

There are some words exchanged over him. They’re not directed at Otabek, even though they’re clearly talking about him. Someone pulls Otabek’s head up from the floor by his hair, another hand cupping his jaw. 

“Were you looking at me?”

Otabek’s too dizzy to see the man’s face; his eyes focus on what’s in front of him, which is some guy with his pants down and his flaccid cock  _ still dripping _ . Otabek wants to gag, his stomach twisting in anticipation of what’s to come, but the man behind him pulls his hips up, brushing against Otabek’s ass. Otabek’s embarrassed at the quivering sound coming out of his mouth that most definitely doesn’t sound like _ no _ , no matter how hard he tries to say it. Otabek’s whimpers morph into a loud groan as the man at his back spreads Otabek open and pushes himself inside. The man’s cock burns inside of him, sending shockwaves up Otabek’s spine. He can’t help but to move back until there’s nothing left to take in, can’t help but arch his back like a little kitten, splayed out on his hands and knees on the dirty flooded floor. 

The guy holding Otabek’s chin up takes his chance. He thrusts his cock into Otabek’s mouth, pushing in as far as he can. Otabek gags and pulls back, trying to breathe despite the hand suddenly clasped on the back of his neck. The acrid taste of piss lingers on his tongue.

Otabek’s stomach is a swirl of disgust and arousal: his dick swollen red and begging for attention, his eyes watering as he coughs. “Cry a bit more, cutie,” the guy in front of him says, his thumb slowly caressing the line of Otabek’s jaw. The other man takes this as a cue to pull away, only to slam into him, over and over, pulling indecent sounds and bitten down profanities from Otabek as a thin thread of spit hangs from his lips and tears flutter off his lashes. “That’s it, boy, louder.” 

And the cock in front barely brushed his lips as it swells up and twitches. Otabek wants to bite it off, to wrestle his way away, to run home and lock himself under the hot shower, to forget. Instead the sharp sensation at his back makes Otabek cry out as the cock slips back into his hole, this time without so much resistance as the knot in Otabek’s gut sends shivers throughout his skin and his eyes roll to the back of his head. He curses himself for being so weak; he doesn’t even respond to the hand traveling from the back to his neck to the front, pressing onto his throat. 

“Did you just come? You weren’t allowed to.” Otabek swallows hard to alleviate the pressure on his neck to no avail; his limbs start to get heavy, his mind dull. He stops resisting in hopes that the man will loosen his hands from where they grip Otabek’s neck.The man at his back thrusts in faster, harder, and digs his fingers deep into the flesh of Otabek’s ass as he comes in a soft gasp. 

Otabek feels the warm liquid trickle down his thigh in a thin line after the man pulls away. The other guy is still deep in Otabek’s mouth, moving slowly side-to-side to make Otabek open up. The man at his back pats him in between his shoulderblades, as if he were congratulating a dog. “Good bitch, now let this good man treat like you the way you deserve, yeah?” 

Otabek hears the rustling of fabric behind him but falls to the ground as soon as he tries to lift himself up. His brain is clouded but he can still sense the steps of the man at his back moving far away. A door slammed shut. Otabek would like to turn around, to make sure he’s gone, yet his body feels as if isn’t his own, barely strong enough not to slump on the floor. He must look pathetic: he does feel that way.

Otabek doesn’t even try to wipe the thin thread of saliva hanging from his lip onto the guy’s wrist. The fingers around Otabek’s neck twitch subtly, and the man licks his lips with a certain eagerness as he pulls away.

The grip on Otabek’s throat doesn’t grow tighter but it doesn’t let up either. The man pulls Otabek to his feet as he steps away, grabbing a handful of Otabek’s shirt to get him up and against the wall of one of the toilet stalls. The guy lets Otabek go and he slumps down to the floor, unable to stand up; the world is spinning all around him, whole body sticky with sweat and cum and self-loathing.

Otabek looks lifelessly at the guy who is rubbing himself in front of him, like a puppet with too much slack on its strings.  _ The way you deserve.  _ Is this it? Is this what life has in store for him? Is this what he earns for his efforts to get out of the pit, all of what he can get? 

He’ll never be anyone, then. Otabek will never get a damn medal, never get closer to  _ him. _ He’ll never even cross eyes with Yuri Plisetsky again.

He doesn’t deserve to. 

_ This _ is what Otabek is good for. Not for music, not the ice. Not for his friends, his sisters. Not for Yuri, never for Yuri. He’s too much of a nice obedient plaything covered in other people’s fluids and resentment. Too much of a stray dog, beaten up and shoved into shit. 

He’s too good being a  _ good bitch _ to pull away. 

Otabek doesn’t even make a sound or try to pull away as the guy’s hand reaches for his chin to push his cock inside Otabek’s mouth again. Otabek doesn’t gag, or cough, or try not to taste it: he’s numb to the world, a plaything under the hands of a cruel puppeteer. The struggle is worthless: Otabek would rather just sit there, limbs completely loose and eyes fixed on a point on the wall right next to the guy’s head, and let him thrust in and out. Otabek will never be enough, he’ll never fulfill anyone’s expectations. Otabek will never meet Leo again in competition, never hold his sisters one more time. Never ride again with his mates. He’ll never get the chance to defeat JJ and make him swallow his words.

He’ll never see Yuri again. 

He’ll never go back home. 

He’ll never be anything other than  _ this. _

Otabek doesn’t really notice when the tears start flowing; he only realizes when they trickle down his chin and drip onto his thighs. When the guy moans as he sobs silently. 

JJ was right: he’s a freak. Otabek has no place in their world. This is all he is, this is all he will ever be. 

Otabek doesn’t deserve the praise. He doesn’t deserve  _ them _ . 

This is all Otabek has. A bitter taste floods his mouth, and he can’t hear anything, so far from reality as he is, yet still the guy steps back to take his chin and force Otabek to look straight in his eye. 

“You liked that, didn’t you? All cute and crying for me,” the guy whispers too close to his face, covered in sweat and with that damn stupid smile on his lips. “You’re made to be a dirty little slut, aren’t you? So pretty and well trained.” 

Otabek doesn’t deserve them, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let the world rip his loved ones away from him. That doesn’t mean he won’t fight for them. That he won’t make them proud, no matter how far he has to climb out of his own flesh. He’s a warrior, and he will fight.

The world won’t tell Otabek what he can and cannot have.  _ He  _ won’t. 

Otabek spits the cum in his mouth right back out at the guy and before Otabek notices, his head hits the floor with a thud. There’s a taste of copper in between his teeth, a harsh throbb in Otabek’s jaw where the guy’s fist connected with his face. He licks the open slit in the middle of his lip and lets the pain wash over him, prodding at it. 

Otabek will fight, he’ll fall and he’ll get the fuck back up. He’ll get to his Yuri. 

But what  _ then? _ How can he cleanse himself of all of this?

How can he make it all go away? 

He’s too good at it to make it vanish; he’s been at it for too long. 

He’ll never be enough. And Otabek cringes as he starts laughing for no reason, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. He’ll never be enough, and there’s no battle that can change that. He’s branded, he’s beaten up and chained down and  _ filthy. _ That’s all he has to offer. 

He’ll never be enough, and his breathing becomes jagged, the loud cackle becoming a sob; he’ll never be enough, he doesn’t belong up there. He’s an outcast, a street rat, a  _ fucking queer. _ He bangs his head against the floor and screams his lungs out. 

Otabek doesn’t belong. They’re right and he doesn’t belong. Why would Yuri even look his way? 

This is all the love he can get. 

His hands grip on his hair tightly, as if to look for a way out. But there’s none. He’s used goods, hand-outs. 

A second class person. A plaything. No one. 

A freak. A faggot. 

Otabek’s fighting a battle he’s already lost. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's try to do this quick: Otabek gets into this shady nightclub on a basement to find something to numb his senses with. He goes for booze and the first guy who offers to buy him some more and takes him to the bathroom.  
> Mistery guy takes advantage of the alcohol starting to lull Otabek and invites some random man that walks in to play with our boy too. Explicit non con scene happens and Otabek ends up lying on the floor of one of the stalls, mouth filled with blood from the punch he wasn't conscious enough to dodge and his lip split and starting to swell. Broken.  
> This is some weeks after that.

Eventually JJ grew tired of trying to speak to Otabek again. Or ashamed. Either way, they barely talk now, only if it’s strictly necessary, and even then Otabek has to struggle not to hiss at JJ. The sole mention of the guy’s name makes him remember the bar, the club afterwards, the…

He misses Isabella, sure, but he just can’t stand her anymore. Always trying to see the good in people close to her disregarding anything else: in JJ, in himself… Otabek doesn’t believe her words anymore. He can’t stand her constant apologizing for Leroy’s behaviour. There’s no use anyways: they don’t know what happened. They never will. They never should. They just can’t handle something like that.

Not when JJ almost had a heart attack when he saw Otabek the monday morning after: the already yellowing bruises on his jaw concealed, but his lip still split bloody, too swollen to wear the rings at the side. JJ had even tried to corner Otabek in the lockers that day, only to end up shoved against the wall with a bicep pressed against his throat. It was meant to be a warning but Otabek couldn’t find his own voice, glaring and hissing like a rabid dog as his chest started to ache. 

He’d tell himself for days it was only the exhaustion of practice catching up to him, not the memory of a hard grip on his hair, a fist closing around his neck, reflected on JJ’s light blue stare. He’d tell himself it was nothing: a fucked up night as many others he’s had, and the lump in his throat would only grow bigger as he realizes he’s not even lying to himself. 

One as many other. One more night getting home used up and beaten down, his mouth reeking of blood and cum and words too hard to swallow. One more morning of heavy makeup to try and look less like a stray dog, its body splattered in scars; to try and look less like himself. 

It was much easier, at least. Until he feels the piercing blue stare drilling at his back, following his every move. It’s been like this since the early morning, as if JJ had something to say but didn’t dare say it. Which wouldn’t be so unthinkable since the last time he tried to speak to him, Otabek had managed to kick his legs off balance and strangle him, only to leave without muttering a word. Still, Otabek’s patience runs thin, and gives its place to annoyance; he loses his cool while in the middles of a jump, rotating just a bit too much. He lands hardly on his side, right onto a too fresh wound from last night he isn’t willing to confess to his coach. A sharp sting rushes from his hipbones to his knee and he’s not even in real pain; he’s had worse, but he’s pissed, and sick of it all, and  _ JJ won’t stop staring.  _ Otabek tries to lift himself up and his leg gives in, sending a jolt through his leg bad enough to pull a loud  _ fuck  _ out of him. He scoffs, and clenches his teeth, very much aware of everyone following his moves on the ice, slower this time, clicking his guards in place as he gets to the side. He buries the pain away from his face and hurries his way to the lockers, purposely colliding against JJ’s shoulder in his way. It’s a sign as clear as any, and the only thing Otabek could think of besides screaming at his face in the middle of the rink. 

Otabek doesn’t really check if he’s actually being followed: he’s given the guy his chance, now it’s up to him to take it or not. He winces as he yanks his skates off his sore feet, ripping off the socks in the way,  damp with sweat and blood from practice. The coolness of the floor soothes the fire in his soles as he stand in front of the mirror, his shirt a black knot on his fist and a rainbow splattered onto his chest. The fresh red over his collarbones, bright purple and blue still forming on his hips; sickly yellows and greens over his ribs, his stomach, where the marks have started to fade but the pain somehow lingers on. It’s like a canvas, painted with the colors of despair; the story of every fall and every insult thrown at him still printed on his skin. 

And a figure looming over his shoulder, bright blue eyes wide in horror. It must be the first time Otabek sees JJ’s face completely out of his stage persona: scared and about to run away.

“Oh my-” JJ starts and it’s not enough for Otabek to feel sorry for him: the bruises on his torso starting to scorch as if JJ’s gaze could light the scars on fire again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Otabek snaps, looking at JJ through the mirror; he’s had enough of this silent chase game JJ’s been playing with him. 

“Mine? What’s  _ yours _ ? Who did this to you?” JJ’s outraged; he takes a step forward to reach out but his hands stop midway. Otabek remembers the bite marks on his lower back, the kicks at his ribs: he can only imagine what his back must look like by the way JJ’s eyes suddenly glimmer with unshed tears. “Who would do something like-”

“You think I asked for their names?” Otabek scoffs, his smirk more painful than amused. “You probably would, since you get along with them so well…”

“I would never!” JJ grabs him by his shoulders and Otabek yanks himself off his grip, flinching as if JJ’s touch would brand him, as the other did. It’s then when JJ realizes what he meant. “They threatened me too! You kissed me and they came after me! You left me with them, you threw me to the wolves, man!” He defends himself, trying to sound offended. 

“More like really loud poodles.” Otabek chuckles and there’s something dark in his tone. “They weren’t gonna touch you. You’re one of  _ them, _ after all.” He dismisses JJ’s attempt to reply as he goes on. “You’ve never even been looked at wrong.” He turns with a bitter smile dancing on his lips; the words hissed through his clenched teeth. “Fuck, you don’t even know what you did wrong, do you?”

Otabek shakes his head and starts to walk away, back to his discarded bag, when JJ pushes him back against the lockers, the cold edges digging into his flesh. 

“Shit, sorry!” JJ pulls back as Otabek glares at him, the slight trace of pain still lingering in the twitch of his mouth. “Look, I understand you’re hurt, okay? I panicked! You would too if you-” Otabek rolls his eyes and JJ stops himself mid-sentence. “Fine, maybe  _ you  _ wouldn’t, okay? But they took me by surprise.” JJ sighs and lets his shoulders slump down, defeated. “Look, I’m really trying here, alright? I know I’ve said it before but let me make it up to you. This time in a place where I can’t fuck it up.” Otabek only raises a brow at him, arms tightly crossed over his chest. It’s enough to make JJ continue; it never takes much effort to make him talk, after all. “I’ve got an appointment on Friday after practice. I’m getting inked again! And Isabella’s afraid of needles, so… I mean, you have a lot of metal in you; I assume you won’t get creeped out easily, will you?” JJ laughs and Otabek shrink into himself, scowling. They haven’t spoken in weeks and he really expects to be forgiven just like that, to suddenly become best friends and go everywhere together just because JJ saw a bruise or two? “I’ll pay for whatever you want, no matter how big. The guy’s good, I tell you!”

Otabek lifts himself off the locker and walks up to his bag to finish changing his clothes while JJ keeps on whining at his back on how he doesn’t wanna get a tattoo on his own. Otabek can shower at his own place; right now he needs to get the hell away. And to take the long way home tonight. 

He’s lacing up his boots when he feels the hand on his shoulder, the plea on his ears. “Come on, man! Say something!” 

“Get the fuck off my face,” Otabek mutters slowly, crushing JJ’s hand in his, “or I’ll kick that shit eating look off your face.” 

That JJ gets right away: he yanks his hand away from Otabek’s death grip and scowls. He opens his mouth to say something but decides against it, waking out instead with his head up. Almost as if nothing had happened, if it weren’t for the way he keep on rubbing his hands together. 

Otabek will really need that ride. And a fucking smoke. 

Vancouver seems to be filled with homophobic shits, and loud blabber mouthed idiots. Or at least, the places Otabek walks in seem to be. To be fair, same thing happened during his stay in the States. He sighs and breaths in the salty ocean breeze, the cold piercing even through his leather jacket. It lulls his mind out of it all. There’s something unashamedly vast and deep in the ocean, something that seems to call out to him; as if the waters could wash away the corrosion, no matter how old, no matter how rooted. The sea could sing lullabies to his nightmares, could roar louder than the voices in his head. 

Vancouver knows how to be magical. Too bad he has no one to share the magic with.

The phone feels heavy in his pocket; he wonders how many blows he can take before hitting back, how much he can forgive.

How much he actually forgives instead of burying the resentment deep in him as he types a quick text. 

_ Friday after practice. Do not cling to me.  _

He doesn’t quite know what could sink him first low enough for him to never reach the surface again: if the too many second chances or the loneliness. 

He hopes the ocean knows how to wash off doubt as well. 


	7. Chapter 7

The whole week has been fairly quiet; JJ, although still sending one or two furtive looks his way, had managed to stay off Otabek’s back even with their afternoon plans still standing. 

They haven’t even talked about it, not properly; Otabek knows they should but it’s a conversation he’s dreading to have. JJ not yet quite understanding why Otabek kissed him must be the only reason he hasn’t told the world about it.

JJ still grins at Otabek when their eyes meet, trying to get a sort of response out of him. 

It doesn’t quite work. 

Specially when fatigue takes the best of him, pulling Otabek off the ice after a sharp pain suddenly crawled up his leg out of nowhere. The medic says there’s nothing torn, only exhaustion, yet to Otabek it still feels like a slap to the face. He’s ready to protests when the medic’s hands fall hard on his shoulders, pinning him to the bench. 

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, and maybe go see me first time on Monday at my office?” she says, and it doesn’t sound at al like an invitation. He even tries to stand up as a token of respect when she walks away from him but a new fresh wave of fire on his sore muscles keeps him nailed in place, scowling at his limb not wanting to cooperate with him. The medic turns at him once more to flash this little cheeky ‘I told you so’ smirk and walk out the door without just as fast.

He still tries to go through his daily stretching routine to ease the aching when he feels the weight of someone plopping down on the bench he’s sitting on. Otabek can tell who it is without even turning to see the guy watching the ice intensely. 

“Tough day, huh?” JJ sighs besides him, as if he was the one forced to stay off the ice. “What did she say?” 

“Nothing torn or broken.” Otabek gives in quickly; he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have people who care around him. Which isn’t exactly JJ’s forte, but he did ask nicely this time. 

“Well, that’s not too bad!” JJ grins and Otabek just grunts, his face almost touching his thigh. “Take it as a well deserved vacation,. You’ll be much more precise when you come back around!” 

“Mh.” He mutters while lifting himself up again. This is a vacation he wasn’t willing to take; this is fucking time-out. A pause on his training he wasn’t counting on. He needs every hour on the ice he can get; he’s still barely a match for JJ’s skating, much less for other much more experienced skaters. Nikiforov wouldn’t even bother to look at him to laugh at his current skills. He needs to get better and he won’t be by sitting on his ass at home all weekend, and who knows how much longer. 

“So, um, we’re still up for today? Think you can make it?” JJ’s usual in-your-face tone softens down to a concerned whisper. “I mean, I can always reschedule-”

“Don’t.” Otabek cuts him short.  _ Can’t you just go with someone else? _ He still doesn’t get why the hell is JJ so interested in him. Is he really that determined for them to become friends? Or was it only his first excuse and now he’s just trying to fight off the guilt? Either way, JJ isn’t gonna stop until he gets what he wants, and quite frankly, Otabek’s pretty curious about the get together. “Don’t cancel; I can make it.” He stands up slowly, leaning on his less mistreated leg for support, hiding the wince of pain on his face as best he can and swallows hard to keep his voice from quivering. “I’m going home.” He can see on JJ’s expression his limping must be quite evident, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “Text me and I’ll see you there.” 

Otabek can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he takes his bag and walks out the door; the chill breeze numbing him enough to hop onto his bike and forget about the medic for a second. He’s got hours by himself until JJ finishes his training. Part of him wants to believe the idiot's intentions are true, to forgive him; part of him wants to check if he’s as tough as he likes to pretend. Otabek couldn’t really decline the invitation: it’s gonna be an interesting afternoon, no matter what. 

He just needs a shower before it all. And maybe a bit of a getaway. He hasn’t really have the time to see the city, after all. 

 

Otabek shows up exactly fifteen minutes after he gets the text with the address, yet JJ looks like he’s taken years to make it. The artist is still setting up the table and JJ’s grin seems to quiver when he looks at Otabek coming through the door. 

“Man, I was waiting for you!” he gets up to hug Otabek and the boy flinches, taking a step back a bit too quickly; he hisses and JJ puts his arms down, settling for his signature move. “Let’s make this happen!” 

Otabek huffs and takes a seat, wincing at every step. The vibration of the bike in between his legs all afternoon has helped him forget about the soreness on his leg, but now it’s come back with a vengeance. He feels forty years older all of the sudden, not bothering to hide how his tongue brushes through his lips, searching for the usual taste of blood always lingering at some cut here or there. 

The artist chuckles at the sight of a leather clad teen muttering to himself like a grumpy old man. “Well, we’re all set. Show me your back and let’s put the stencil on, okay?” 

JJ sits on the designed chair, stomach against the back of it, and Otabek can’t help by raise a brow as the artist rolls the shirt up. Is he gonna get his back tattoed? That can take an awful lot of time and a patience he’s sure JJ does  _ not  _ have. 

Oh. Wait. The stencil is not covering his full back, not quite. Otabek lowers his head to hide the smirk in his lips but the snort of a repressed laughter is still too loud for JJ not to focus on him. 

“What?” The guy widens his eyes in panic and Otabek bites his lip not to grin. “Is it bad? Tell me if it’s bad, man.” 

“No, it’s…” It’s what? It’s not like Otabek can quite see what the guy’s doing since he’s directly facing at JJ and he can’t possibly see his back. Yet he guesses where the ink’s gonna be by the artist’s hands on JJ’s back. He snickers to himself before answering. “I can’t see anything from here.” 

The artist steps away from JJ’s back with a smile, offering a hand for the boy to stand up in front of the full body mirror at the opposite wall. JJ turns to stare at his lower back, the design printed right in between his dimples. 

Otabek can’t quite stop himself from commenting on it; the whole idea seems just ridiculous. “You’re gonna tattoo your own initials?”

“Well, yeah! Isn’t it cool?” JJ pivots to look at him, already setting up his hand in that irritating gesture of his. “‘Cause that's J-”

“Are you afraid to forget your own name?” 

JJ’s grin falters for a bit after such a question asked in such an empty monotone. “Well, no… I mean,” he stutters, “It’s a name brand, man!” He finally blurts out, pretty satisfied with his answer, and it kinda makes my ass pop out better, don’t you think?”

Otabek runs a hand through his hair to mask his exasperation. This guy is truly something: is he actually trying to flirt? In the most awkward way possible, even. “You were bitching about some guy checking you out at the club. Now you’re asking me to  _ stare at your ass. _ ” He states as a matter of fact and JJ laugh as as he settles back into the chair. 

“But this is you, not some guy! You wouldn’t hit on me!” He replies, and the artists scolds him for moving. 

The guy’s gonna have a hard day today for sure. 

Otabek stands up slowly, feeling like an old clockwork figure, chirring and buzzing at the hinges. His eyes immediately fall on the wall that was just behind him, on the painting covering it whole. An explosion of reds and oranges and sepias flowing like an ocean of long strides, a landscape worthy to be in an art gallery, breathtaking. Only interrupted by a black presence at the far right corner, a Harley Davidson seventy two if Otabek knew his way around motorcycles, trailed by tire marks on the sand, golden letters flashing bright against black. 

He’s too stunned by the art on the wall, mouth agape and surely looking like a damn idiot, to notice the words slurring out of his mouth. Even a little too loud for his own habit. “I’ll be the first to admit my standards aren’t really high, and yet I still wouldn't fuck you even if you were the last person on Earth.”

He hears a choked chuckle at his back and turns a bit too fast; his leg buckles under his weight as he stand as still as he can, waiting for the pain to fade. He remembers the medic’s smirk and bile crawls up his throat, threatening to lash out. Fuck the medic, fuck the diagnosis, fuck his fucking weak leg. 

“Well,” JJ starts, a hand pressed flat on the middle of his back to stop him from squirming when the needle digs in, “first of all, rude. And secondly, I’m sure a thing like this could change some people’s minds, don’t you?” JJ winks at him and Otabek scoffs. Fucking ridiculous. 

“The thing is, Leroy,” he pauses for effect, “a nice ass won’t compensate for all the shit that comes out of your mouth.” 

He waits for the guy to insult him back, to lash out, but the artist reacts faster: he pulls away and stops the machine to cackle at the comment, echoing all across the room. JJ just follows a second after. “Wait, were you watching?? That’s so gay, dude.” He jokes and Otabek pouts without even noticing. “Hold on. Were you really-?”

“I wasn’t checking you out, you self-centered dick.” There’s a smugness to JJ’s words that just pisses Otabek off to no avail. The idea that anyone would want to be around him, especially someone like Otabek, who has been through what they’ve been through together… And the guy is not an idol. He’s not a role model. He’s not a fucking hero, no matter how much Otabek tried to find shelter in him. The guy is a dick and an idiot and Otabek just take his head out of the fucking hole it’s buried in and see it for himself, too. He’s just longing for something this moron can’t give him. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, fidgeting against the fabric and around the cigarette box he knows he shouldn’t have bought. “You’re…” He tries to find words not too flattering, not too nice, or else he’ll never hear the end of it. But then again, how could he? “You’re one of the best,  _ I have to  _ look at you.” 

“Okay, okay,” JJ smiles that paparazzi grin he does for his fans and gets shoved against the back of the seat again. The artist is starting to lose his cool at this point for all the shifting and the hissing through teeth. “It’s just that it really sounded like I should clarify that I don’t swing  _ that way _ , that’s all.”

Otabek senses a whiff of what could have been disgust, or even fear, on JJ’s tone. He snaps back, irritated. Being queer doesn’t make him a fucking predator. “You know, not because I like men I have to want to fuck every single one.  _ Especially not you _ .” 

“Wow, wait, I didn’t mean to-” JJ starts and his mouth snaps shut with a hiss as the artist begins to fill up the figures. “Damn, this better look good.” Otabek smirks, watching JJ close his eyes shut and bite the inside of his cheek not to scream every time the artist presses a bit harder on his skin. It takes a while for him to speak again, in between the noise and the pain of the needle. It takes a while for the words to sink in. “Wait, you  _ do _ like guys?”

JJ sounds like he’s just discovered the fucking meaning of life. Isabella worked it out in a second, why hasn’t he?

Or better yet, how come she hasn’t told him anything? They’re constantly all over each other; she must have had a lot of chances to do so. 

Maybe she actually meant it when she said it was a secret only for both of them to know. 

Still…”You’re pretty dense, aren’t you?” Otabek quirks a brow at him, and JJ scoffs. He would cross his arms if he could, pouting like a little child. 

“I thought you were bullshitting me! Like at the bar, I thought-” He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. He finally understood, didn’t he? It took him long enough. 

“To be fair, I  _ was _ taunting the dirtbags at the bar.” Otabek twist his mouth in disgust at the memory of the bastards calling him names, laughing. 

They were the more inoffensive ones of the night, after all. 

“Was…  _ that _ really necessary?” 

“What was?” 

JJ opens his mouth to speak and closes it again. He looks troubled, almost offended. Close to throwing a tantrum, in Otabek’s eyes. And he knows exactly the reason why. “You kissed me, man! Like, I understand you were pissed and trying to prove a point and all, but you just had to  _ shove your tongue inside my mouth?” _

At this point the artist’s done with his work, and full on laughing, bent over himself and hands clutching his stomach. He lifts his gaze and it falls on the fiery glare of Otabek; he swallows hard, and goes back to fetch the cleaning solution. 

“They had to buy it.” Otabek says to the air, absentmindedly. “Trust me, it’s not happening again.”

JJ walks up to the mirror to see the tattoo freshly finished, his skin stained with black and slightly reddened; he sways his hips slowly to check out every angle. “Are you sure? I mean, I can’t really blame you.”

“Not in your wildest dreams, Leroy.”

The idiot just laughs as the artist covers his back while explaining the care routine he’ll have to follow. 

 

“Well?” The tattoo artist towers over where Otabek’s sitting in the couch, zoning out of the boring lecture he was giving JJ; his hair flowing in big waves out of a messy bun at the back of his head, and a smile more visible deep within his brown stare than on the thin line of his mouth. “What are you having?”

_ You’re really close  _ is the first thing that pops in Otabek’s mind. He dismisses it, trying to hide his discomfort. JJ just unveiled a really important part of his life and this guy, whoever he is, seems pretty interested by the way he looks at Otabek. He could put up a bit of a show, just to see how sick can JJ be of the situation. 

“I’m not too keen on ink.” He doesn’t break eye contact with the artist for a second until the guy yields, moving away to make him follow to the display case on a corner of the parlor. 

Otabek doesn't hesitate; he’s made up his mind when the tattoo was being done. “I want that one.” He point at one particular piece of jewelry. 

“Are you sure? That’s mostly for-”

“Yes.” Otabek cuts the guy short. “I am.”

The guy lowers his gaze with a smirk on his lips; Otabek could almost se he was licking his lips in the way. “As you wish.” He  says, setting up a chair right under the lamp. “Have a seat.”

Otabek can see JJ positively squirming on the couch, uncomfortable. He must be trying to figure what exactly they’re about to do, and Otabek’s not willing to let it out until it happens. The impressive looking, quite large needle shows up and JJ loses all color in his face. 

Otabek would laugh if it wasn’t for the guy suddenly reaching out and brushing a finger across the bottom of his chin, bringing him closer. “So? How many so far?”

He hears a comment from JJ (‘like seventy!’) and rolls his eyes. “Six.” His voice is firm, his gaze more so. The artist doesn’t flinch either. 

“Okay, so you know what we’re getting into. Let’s make the seventh. Now,” the artist grabs Otabek’s chin to rub a thumb over the scars at the side of his lip. In a manner Otabek’s certain can  _ not _ be professional. “What did you do to yourself?” 

_ If only you knew. _ Otabek’s lips twist upward so slightly the artist wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t because it was happening right underneath his hand. “I got bored.” 

Not even himself can buy that crap. Yet what else could he say? ‘A guy punched me after I spat his own cum at his face’? Cute imagery, isn’t it? And a nice tale for JJ to shout around the entire fucking rink. He still feels the twitching of the swelling, like a ghost touch, struggling to find room in between the metal rings. The steel impregnated with the taste of so many fluids Otabek could have sworn he could even feel the atrocious dampness of the bathroom floor on his mouth. He was sick of them. Blood kept flooding his mouth that damned morning, making him vomit his guts out along with whatever else he’s dared to swallow that night. He might have tried to screw them off patiently, despite the pain to no avail. The opening was embedded deep into the mistreated flesh, too hidden for him to reach. 

He might have cut them open and yanked them off. 

He couldn’t think of any other option. 

“Alright, after all of this, promise you’ll keep these two,” the artist presses his thumb right against the scar; it doesn’t hurt anymore, but the intimate touch of it, the lingering taste of latex at the corner of his mouth, makes him shiver. “Just as clean as the new one, got it?”

Otabek just nods. The guy lets him go to take the marker on the table, and he pulls out his tongue, staring right at the artist’s eye. 

He just chuckles and makes the marks. Otabek can’t see JJ from where he’s sitting, but he can hear him clearly. And the idiot sounds like he’s in a horror movie.

He must have got it by now. 

Mostly judging for the high pitch squeal he lets out when he sees the tweezer on the artist’s hand. Otabek pulls out his tongue flat in between the tool, and the artist chuckles. “You’re making my job hard here, boy.” 

Otabek only quirks a brow as a reply. He hears the dread on JJ’s voice, and the stinging of the needle right under his tongue. It all happens in a flash: just a tiny push and the needle appears at the other side, almost completely painless.

It does looks fucked up, though. He can feel the metal held right in the middle of his lips as the artists takes the jewelry and sets it in place. He doesn’t even know why he closes his eyes at the contact, but there's’ something alluring on the guy’s fingers around his mouth, the steel ball hitting on his palate and clinking against his teeth. This is fun. This is not half bad. 

He might even keep it. 

“... okay? Only soft foods for around a week. And do you smoke?” 

“Yes.” He opens his eyes slowly to be reminded that JJ is  _ right there. _ By his disapproving “you smoke??!” screeched in the background. He doesn’t give too much of a shit about him right now; he’s loving to have a piece of metal toying around in his tongue and he wants to try it out. 

“Well, try not to, okay?” The artist smiles, this time fully, and Otabek’s lips twitch upwards again. It’s hardly a smile, but the guy notices it anyways. “Keep some non alcoholic mouthwash close to you at all times, just in case. And one more thing. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” He responds automatically, and the guy doesn’t miss a beat: his lips fall soft on Otabek’s, not lustful, not demanding. Just… nice. That doesn’t happen often.

“Also,” he adds, starting to clean his work table, “try to keep anything involving your tongue to a minimum. I can already see you don’t talk much, anyways.” He turns to him to offer a hand Otabek doesn’t take, and a notepad. Otabek’s not given the chance to ask. “May I have your number?”

“Didn’t you just-?”

“I’ll call in a week. Just to check.” The guy grins at him and Otabek stares. He doesn’t look half bad, really. 

Otabek scribbles the number quickly and gives the pad back, walking to where JJ is still slouching, pale as a ghost and sweating. 

That’s quite a sight. Exactly the thing he came in for. Otabek can’t stop the smug look for reaching his face. Fuck it, it was fun, after all. 

 

They’re out of the parlor and in JJ’s car in no time, and Otabek’s determined to speak as little as possible. Even when sitting on the passenger’s seat, a bit too close to ignore the driver. 

He can say he’s offended for JJ’s past actions, but the truth is he can feel his tongue swelling and struggling to follow his commands. Luckily, the sole sound of metal clashing against his teeth makes JJ so nervous his voice grows an octave higher. 

“I can believe you actually smoke, man, you’re an athlete!” Clink. JJ shudders. “Your performance can be fucked up by it, y’know?” Clink. “Could you stop doing that? It’s fucking creepy.” 

Red light. Green light. Clink. 

“Why do you even smoke? You know it’s bad for you, right?” Otabek looks at JJ through the rear view mirror, waiting for him to turn his eyes to the reflection, and shrugs. “What’s so great about it?” Otabek whips out his phone. He could just text him. Then again, what can he say?

_ It’s the one thing besides music that reminds me of home? _

_ It soothes my nerves after a too busy night?  _

Anything would just give too many details Otabek doesn’t want JJ to know. At least, not now. He thinks it better, and throws the little box to the compartment in between both seats. The least the guy can do is check for himself. 

Red light. JJ barely glances at the box. “Aren’t those kinda girly? I mean, that’s why they make it thin, right?” Otabek rolls his eyes and flicks his fingers against the box. “Fine, I’ll check them.” 

JJ takes the cigarettes in his hand and examines them through: small box, white and pink, somehow sweet over the smell of tobacco.  

“Kiss Romantic? That sounds like the most Barbie Girl brand in existence. Is this your thing?” Otabek scoffs and JJ grins. Damn it, this is not the way he’s expected this to go down.

He has no idea what else he could’ve expected. 

“These are even pink! Like, shit man, the gayest smoke ever.” Otabek straight up kicks the guy’s legs as the car starts moving again and a thunder of car honks and swear words in various languages. This side of the city could be so intercultural sometimes. “What the fuck, man? Relax!” JJ laughs and opens the box to sniff at it. He throws it back to Otabek’s lap in a second. 

“Okay, I get it. That smells like dessert and I don’t really get the magic of it, but I can see why you like it, I guess.” He shrugs. “ at least your breath doesn’t smell like ass after one of those, huh?” Otabek snorts and types out a text, displaying his phone for JJ to read. He’s not risking it to talk like a fucking idiot in front of… well, such a fucking idiot. 

_ “It can also cover a good number of things on my breath.  _ What does that…” JJ starts, turning quickly to look at the road again, when it hits him. He goes from a snort to a chuckle to a loud cackle, gripping the wheel tightly in order not to send them both off the road.”you cannot possibly-” He turns to Otabek who just stares through the window, trying to cover the grin with the hand he’s resting his head on. “OH MY GOD YOU DO. What a kinky fucker your turned out to be, man.” He chuckles again, trying to catch his breath. He whistles long. “I could’ve have never guessed…”

They stop at a red light and suddenly JJ turns to him, eyes wide. “Hold on, Did you-?” He doesn’t get to finish the question, in between the astonishment Otabek can’t quite understand and the car horns behind them, telling them the green light is back up. He accelerates and doesn’t take his eyes from the road, muttering something through his teeth. Otabek doesn’t find a way to ask what the fuck was that so he goes for the first thing that pops up to his head: he kicks JJ’s arm to make him look at Otabek. “I said, is that why you’ve done it? Kinky shit?” He huffs, smirking as he looks back up front. “Are you some kind of freak?” 

Otabek says nothing, waiting for an explanation even though he knows exactly what JJ means. He just enjoys looking at the guy, usually so sure and full of himself, squirming on his seat for something so little as a bit of metal jabbed into a bit of flesh.“For fuck’s sake, you just punched a hole through your tongue! What’s the point?” 

Otabek tilts his head, smirks. 

“ _ You really wanna know what I’ll do with this?  _ Ok, man, that’s…” JJ snorts, “that’s really fucking kinky. How could I not know that? You’re full of surprises, man..” He full on laughs and Otabek shrugs, unable to stop the smile on his lips.  _ If you only knew. _

“I don’t even know how that works, like… I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone with a thing like  _ that _ .” JJ speaks to the air, watching the road intensely, and Otabek smirks to himself.

He knows JJ’s driving; he shouldn’t. He’s done so many things he shouldn’t though. He’s just put a piece of steel through his tongue just to scare the guy, for fuck’s sake; he could at least enjoy it. 

He taps on JJ’s shoulder softly enough for it not to feel like an emergency. Red light. JJ turns to him. He lets out his tongue slowly, swollen thick and a little splash of red sitting in between the flesh and the metal that pulls back when the backside gets stuck against his teeth, as if it was about to be ripped off. JJ literally gags and his eyes go desperately back to the road. 

“What the fuck, man?!” 

Oh, this is gonna be fun. 


	8. Chapter 8

Otabek takes a deep breath as he kicks off his shoes to put on his skates after such a long time. He’s missed the cool atmosphere of the rink; it fills his lungs as if nothing would have this past week. He feels alive again. 

One week. One damn week he’s been out and he can finally come home.

He’s scoffed and whined (because that was what he did no matter how much he wants to convince himself it was a polite discussion) at the medic when she said it.  _ Take the whole week off  _ and it felt like a challenge more than a command; if only his body could respond to his will of fighting his place in the rink. 

It wasn’t that terrible, really: he’s had some time to know the city better. To stay full nights on his bike under the stars, parked right by the shore. To work on his music. To call his family, his friends.

He’s delayed the latter for a few days, though. He didn’t dare call his sister until his tongue was fully healed and he didn’t sound like a slobbering toddler anymore. She’d never let him live it down.

To be honest, he couldn’t quite guess how she was gonna react: it could be just a joke or two, it could not. She’d never really judge his taste for piercings, but Otabek knows she’s not very fond of the idea of needles punching through his body, as harmless as they might be. 

He hasn’t even told her yet. He didn’t really tell anyone. Dasha just figured it out on her own one night. 

How the hell could someone notice it so quickly is still beyond him. And by the noise, no less. Through a shitty laptop microphone. Who the fuck recognizes the clink of metal against teeth through a lagged Skype call?

Although, by the places she’s used to hang around in, it’s not really much of a surprise; most of the crowd are like human canvases, inked and pierced and modified beyond recognition. It makes Dasha’s photo albums pretty damn interesting. 

They must be quite something themselves, too; he can’t help but feeling curious about how all that steel could feel against his skin, the little metal ball toying around the insides of his mouth. He’s learnt a trick or two himself already, with the help of not-as-dull-as-he-thought Cedric, the tattoo artist. Who had actually called to check on him, and Otabek still refused to give him his name. 

In fact, he only answered the call because he had too much free time on his hands, and he’s never been good at fighting his curious instinct. He can’t just stay still; if he does, his mind starts wandering, remembering. He can’t allow himself that. 

Luckily, he’s finally back on the ice, and it embraces him like a mother missing her child. Sliding softly underneath his blade, softening every landing. He settles for doing only doubles today, just in case, even when his mind keeps repeating at him he’s in good enough condition to do so much more. Even when he’s not supposed to do jumps  _ at all _ today. 

There’s something that’s changed in the rink, somehow, People are staring too much, even whispering behind his back. That’s a new one. 

Something must have happened while he was away.

Some gossip must have happened, more like. 

He skates out of the rink at the call of his coach ( _ I told you very clearly to keep it light, Altin!) _ to take a break, dropping onto the bench, water bottle in hand. 

“Told you you’d come back better than before!” JJ yells to him, leaned on the sides of the rink. “You didn’t miss one step!” 

“I had to tone it down, Leroy, of course I didn’t.” Otabek doesn’t even look at him to answer. If he actually fell on the ice today, his coach might just force him to stay off for another week. He’s not risking it. 

“ _ Still, _ ” JJ steps off to sit next to him, “you’re improving. Gaining confidence. It shows.” 

Otabek fidgets in his seat, fingers drumming against the bottle; He’s never learnt how to answer to flattery. International competitions and cameras have never taken the social awkwardness out of him; he’s used to…  _ Stronger _ words thrown at him, after all. “Thanks…” He hesitates, staring at his feet, and JJ chuckles. 

“Are you shying out, really?” He snickers, bending on himself to look at Otabek pouting, huffing like a child. He speaks softer, as if he was talking about a secret only meant for both of them. “You shoved a metal spike through your tongue without even blinking and you get all flustered for a little recognition? You’re truly something, aren’t you?” 

Otabek doesn’t answer, lifting his gaze up to the rink. He’s been out for too long and he still has to wait to call him back in: he feels like in time out. And with JJ. 

He’s really winning at life, isn’t he?

“So, you still have it?” JJ’s voice trembles at the question. Who would have thought the great JJ Leroy would lose his cool so easily by the image of a thick needle piercing straight to the flesh? Otabek makes his piercing click against his teeth and JJ flinches. “Holy fuck, it’s still there. I thought you’d have regretted it ‘cause, y’know, the ice or… I don’t know, the smokes or something.” 

It almost sounds like a wish Otabek isn’t feeling like coming true. He snorts trying to repress his laughter. “You think I did it just for you?”

“Well… Didn’t you?”

He’s not quite wrong, not really. Otabek had wanted to get his tongue pierced for a long time but didn’t dare. The idea of playing tough in front of such a annoying guy like JJ pulled him through it. That doesn’t mean he’s admitting that to him, though. Not with those words.

Not with words, if he can help it. The coach scolds at Emma, correcting some detail on her step sequence while the rest of his mates warming up drawing circles and eights around the rink, too distracted talking to each to look his way. He pulls his tongue out slowly,curving it at the tip so the little metal ball can rest right over the fold. JJ only stares at it, the backside poking out, twitching as if it was a spike digging the hole wider. He lets out a choked sound, white as a sheet but says nothing. Otabek pulls back before anyone can see the piercing, smirking. It  _ can _ be their little secret, after all. 

“Don’t do that, man.” JJ whimpers, almost begging and Otabek just chuckles. 

“Don’t do what?” 

JJ groans, about to complain, when the coach calls Otabek back from his break. Finally.

He won’t be doing any jumps for today, just in case. He doesn’t know how many times that trick will work. 

The metal rests at the bottom of his mouth, a reassuring touch reminding him the things he can pull off despite anything. He’s survived an afternoon alone with JJ; they've even actually  _ talked. _ Fuck, he’s kissed a man right in front of him, despite everything JJ’s done. 

Otabek’s not even annoyed anymore. It’s weird, he should; JJ has done enough to hurt him, yet…

He’s forgiven him. The cool breeze rushes rapidly through his skin as he speeds up and realizes: he’s an idiot, thick and all, but he doesn’t mean wrong. And Otabek’s forgiven him. 

He can be stronger than this, than all of it. Than the fear of competing against world medalists, the need to get his mediocrity bitten off of him by strangers. Than the memories of him beaten and humiliated, used to some stranger’s will. He’s survived all that, he’s pulled through. He can do this.

He can get better, he’s getting better. He can defeat them, he can beat it all. He can be worthy.

He can meet his Yuri where it counts: on the ice. He’ll be good enough to do so. They’ll see. 

The ice is a battlefield and he’s been on the trench for too long. It’s time to fight. Time to prove his worth, his might. 

The metal ball clicks against his palate and he smiles: there’s nothing he can’t put behind him. Nothing he can’t battle his way through. He’s a survivor, a warrior. 

He’s good enough. 

He’ll get there. For Yuri. For himself. 


End file.
